


Right Round

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Clint and Phil White Collar AU [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Clint's a con artist, F/M, Inspired by White Collar, M/M, Phil's an FBI agent, Pole Dancing, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, white collar au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:50:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7420582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a ruthless con artist comes to town, Clint has to fall back on some old skills to find out what's going on before people close to him get hurt. And Tony Stark is right in the middle of the case doing what he does best ... trying to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, here's the promised Clint goes undercover as a stripper White Collar AU. Hold on to your seats because we also get some Bucky and Natasha interaction as well as some Tony front and center. Plus another familiar face makes an appearance. :)

“I want this done by tomorrow, understand?” Obediah Stane asked, looming over the man seated at a table by the stage. The club was empty this early in the morning, only a woman polishing the bar besides the owner and Stane.

 

“There’s only so much we can do at one time before the feds get suspicious,” Darren O’Warren replied. “Three days to the grand opening of the new flagship club in NYC; we’ll be able to double the amount we can write off per month once the doors open.”

 

“I need the money now.” Stane tapped his cigar, letting the ash drift to the polished wood floor. “Get me as much as you can; I’ll hold the Koreans off for the rest.

 

“I’ll do what I can,” the man answered.

 

“And don’t think I don’t know about your side deals. You’re little collection better not get in the way of my business, you understand me?”

 

“Just a little harmless fun,” Darren said, swirling his whiskey in his glass. “Don’t worry about it.”

 

The front door opened and two young men came in, gym bags over their shoulders; both were tall, lean muscular arms on display in their tank tops. The blonde one pushed his long bangs back, his eyes sliding over Stane and the owner then turning away.  They passed the bar, waved to Bridgit, then entered the backstage door.

 

“You better be right. I need someone who can do this,” Stane growled. “Or I’ll replace you with someone who can.”

* * *

Clint held the towel around his waist as he picked the grey slim suit and a light purple shirt. Hanging them on a hook, he slipped into a pair of silk boxers, humming under his breath as he headed into the kitchen for his first cup of coffee.

 

“New York, New York?” Tony Stark asked, leaning on the door jam in a ratty t-shirt and pair of jeans that had seen better days. His feet were bare and his hair spiked up in clumps. “Going full out Sinatra today?”

 

Shrugging, Clint took a second mug from the upper cabinet. “Frank had it going on, man. I could do  lot worse.  You up early or haven’t been to bed yet?”

 

“Fixed the last two problems on the Jericho delivery system.” Tony took the cup and drank it straight without waiting for it to cool. “Going to sleep for a day or two then get started on the payload specs.”

 

“You know Stane would warn you not to talk to me about SI proprietary information.”  Clint sipped his own coffee after adding a bit of sugar and some creamer. “He thinks I’m going to steal it.”

 

“Hell, I’ll give it to you just for giving Obie so much heartburn lately.”  Tony chuckled. “For once, I’m not the only one getting disapproving looks.”

 

“Glad to be of service.” Clint ducked back into the closet for his suit.  “But I know you, Tony. I’ll give you a day before you’re bored.”

 

“Yeah, probably,” Tony agreed.”  “So what’s the case you’re working on? Tax evasion? Stolen jewels? Hacker?”

 

“Getting a new one this morning.” He buttoned his shirt and slipped on his pants, tucking in the tails. “And I shouldn’t be talking to you about them anyway.”

 

“See? Friends share.” Tony laughed. “Go with the black tie with silver dots. The Armani.”

 

He was right; the tie was slim and a perfect choice. “Tell me the cook made croissants; the woman is worth her weight in gold. I hope you pay her enough.”

 

“Pepper makes sure of that; she loves the tarts.”

 

A second cup of coffee -- Tony only bought the good stuff -- and a warm pastry later, Clint decided to walk. Sunlight shone between the tall buildings, slants of gold across the lines of cars, shining on the yellow paint of taxis through the side streets. He wandered past bakeries and small cafes, bodegas with fresh fruit outside, office towers and apartment buildings with doormen. Drinking in the city, he paused at an art gallery to admire a painting in the window, noting the name of the artist. Halfway to the office, he stopped to buy a box of donuts from a little store tucked down a side street; they were still warm from the fryer, the smell of cinnamon wafting from the glazed rounds.

 

He nodded to Wade at the security desk, handing him the bag with a blueberry cake donut; catching an elevator, he stepped to the side as Steve Rogers joined him at the last minute before the doors closed.  Rumpled shirt, tie askew, he was running his hands through hair that was usually perfectly in place, trying to smooth it down.

 

“Sharon liked Hamilton, I take it?” Clint asked, opening the box and letting Steve snagged the first one.

 

“She … loved it.” Steve smiled, his eyes losing focus at the memory.  The elevator rose to their floor as he ate his breakfast in three bites. “Thanks. I’m running late.”

 

“Yeah, I see.” Clint’s good mood spread to Steve. “Stop by my desk; a different tie and no one will notice it’s the same suit.”

 

Nothing like bringing food to an early morning meeting; the box was swarmed within seconds of Clint leaving it on the counter, Darcy forcing her way through the crowd to get the cinnamon sugar one. Tucking the sour cream donut into a napkin, Clint left it on Coulson’s desk while Phil was in with Fury.  The door opened, and  three men exited Fury’s office, everyone scattered to their own areas as Phil gave Clint a brief nod.   

 

“Meeting in five,” Fury barked. “And bring me that last donut, Rogers.”

 

Clint entered the conference room to find one James Buchanan Barnes,  one of the best insurance fraud investigators in the world, not to mention an on-again/off-again nemesis over the years.   For the most part, Clint had flown beneath his radar;  Natasha, on the other hand, had virtually been Barnes’ dance partner, leading him on a merry chase through the best museums and collections on six continents.

 

“A man bun?” Clint tugged at the end of Barnes’ hair. “Very European chic.”

 

“Can’t all look like we stepped out of a Rat Pack movie,” Barnes came back. “Or an all-America like Steve here. Hey, that’s a nice tie, Rogers. Not your usual style.”

 

Steve’s eyes flicked to Clint before he answered. “Trying something new.”

 

“Sharon does have excellent taste,” Maria Hill agreed, sliding into her seat. “She dressing you already?”

 

“If we can table Rogers’ neckwear for later, we’re on the clock, people. Let’s get going. Barnes, take the floor.” Nick swept in, closing the door behind him.

 

“Right.” Barnes popped a jump drive into the view screen and called up a file. “I’m tracking a set of drawings that, rumor has it, are going to be sold to a buyer here in New York in the next few days.  A number of … unusual items have recently been put on the market; the collector’s heir didn’t share his tastes.”

 

An image filled the screen, a pencil sketch of a gruesome scene; a woman lay sprawled on a cobblestone street, body sliced open, dark pools of blood gathered in the cobblestone beneath. Sightless eyes stared out of the picture, her internal organs drawn with sharp lines, a juxtaposition against the filmy swirls of her ripped corset and slashed dress. The whole composition had a dreamlike feel; it twisted into Clint’s gut like a sharp knife.

 

“The Waterhouse Rippers? I thought those burned in the Blitz?” Clint asked.

 

“From what we know, they were smuggled out of London between the wars,” Barnes answered. “They’ve been in Cyprus for the last twenty some years.”

 

“Costas Kadis. A right bastard, he was; the drawings would fit his tastes.” Clint shook his head; he’d had one run-in with the wealthy man and that was enough.  “His son would sell everything for spite; kid is convinced Costas killed his mother.”

 

“Wait. Back up,” Steve interjected. “Ripper? Waterhouse? Are we talking Jack the Ripper and John Waterhouse? Victorian England? Pre-Raphaelites?”

 

“Technically, Waterhouse wasn’t a member of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood,” Barnes replied. “But yes to all.  As the story goes, it was standard practice of both the police and various tabloid to hire artists to sketch their crime scenes.”

 

“Rossetti, Holman Hunt … quite a few of the famous painters of the time bolstered their bank accounts that way,” Coulson supplied. “So when Jack the Ripper started his killings, they called up Waterhouse, but his drawings were deemed too disturbing by the higher ups.  They were worried the Ripper would kill more if he saw the sketches. They bundled them up and filed them away.”

 

Fighting the urge to wink at Phil, Clint settled for a smile at being one upped in their game of ‘who knows the most.’ “So Kadis junior is selling the Waterhouse sketches to someone in the city?”

 

“The go-between is landing at La Guardia tomorrow evening. That’s why I’m looking for help; I need to figure out who the buyer is before then.” Barnes changed the image for a grainy security camera picture of a tall woman; sunglasses covered her eyes, a scarf wrapped around her head, only a few blonde curls escaping. Passing through security at an airport, she had a Louis Vuitton bag and Prada purse, looking for the world like a rich woman on vacation. “This is the only shot we have of the courier; she’s a professional, goes by the name …”

 

“The Enchantress.” Clint knew all about the woman. “Got a thing for Ginger Rogers and Princess Grace. Likes to think she’s a socialite, calls herself the Duchess of Pennington.”

 

“She’s linked to dozen of illegal transactions including the sale of a royal faberge egg to one of the Saudi royal family,” Maria Hill added.

 

“And at least four murders,” Coulson said. “That we know of.”

 

“A certified psychopath, and I’m not exaggerating. She’s charming, manipulative and will stab you in the back when she has what she wants. All I know is her first name is Amora and she’s from Norway originally. Thor might know more; she’s been mixed up with his brother in a couple schemes.” Clint felt no compunction to keep Amora’s secrets; twice they’d run into each other and Clint had managed to stay out of her line of sight. He had no respect for those with no honor; it was one thing to scam money and steal art, but killing was another. And Amora had no problem pulling the trigger.  

 

“I’ll make the call,” Steve offered. “I’ve got Thor’s number.”

 

Barnes raised an eyebrow, the side of his mouth quirking up. “Didn’t know you swung that way, Steve.”

 

A blush crept up Steve’s neck. “Hey, you don’t know everything about me.”

 

“Is Sharon onboard? I make a mean lemon scallopini. The two of you can come over for dinner …” Clint stopped the joke when he saw the storm clouds gathering over Fury’s head and went back to the task at hand. “Amora doesn’t come cheap, so why would Kadis pay for her services? There are plenty of other couriers he could use.”

 

“That’s the 25,000 dollar question.” Coulson didn’t respond to Clint’s cheeky grin. “There must be more to the story.”

 

“And why I need your help. I can’t get any further in than I am before the thing goes down. I need extra eyes and intel,” Bucky admitted.

 

“Then let’s get rolling. Steve’s got a handle on Thor …” nobody chuckled but there were quite a few grins, “... Maria can mine her contacts at Customs, I’ll check the usual channels of fences and other buyers. Barton, any thoughts?” Coulson doled out assignments with ease, everyone nodding in turn.

 

“I have a few threads to pull.” Actually, there were really only two numbers he needed to call, but no need to make more work for himself. “I’ll make some phone calls, see what info I can scare up.”

 

“Good.” Fury stood, brushing imaginary dust off his dark jacket. “Keep me up-to-date. I want this solved, people. Torture porn is not to be tolerated in my town.”

 

As Fury strode out of the door, Barnes gave an almost imperceptible nod; hanging back, Clint let the others go ahead, avoiding Coulson’s questioning glance.

 

“If you have any pull with that mutual friend of ours, you might want to try and keep her from getting involved in this affair.” Barnes busied himself putting his files in order.

 

“If … and that’s a big if because she never stays in one place long … If she happens to get in touch, why would I want to warn her off considering how she feels about this kind of art,” Clint said. “Nobody tells her what to do; you of all people should know that.”

 

“There’s an undercurrent …” Barnes hesitated, as if searching for the right word, “... a riptide of rumors and guesses. I’ve got nothing solid to base it on, but my gut tells me that she needs to keep her head low. Just … hell, I don’t know why I bother. She’s so stubborn, she’ll think she can handle everything herself.”

 

“Now that’s true. But I’ll pass the message along anyway.”

 

Waiting in the hallway, Coulson motioned Clint into his office, eyeing Barnes as he took the stairs down to the bullpen where all the agents sat at their desks, angling his way to Steve’s Clint did the same, dropping into Coulson’s black chair and tossing his hat on the bureau. “We might have been on opposite sides, but Barnes and I know a lot of the same people; he wanted to compare notes so we don’t overlap.”

 

“Indeed.” Coulson wasn’t buying it but he didn’t push. “You know this woman … is that going to be a problem?”

 

“We’ve never actually met,” Clint said.  “So she won’t recognize me.”

 

“So we’re going to play this game?” Coulson sighed and sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I’d hope we were past keeping secrets, but I can see that was wishful thinking. Fine, don’t tell me what you and Barnes talked about.”

 

Clint felt a pang of guilt; Coulson had gotten him out of jail and given him a chance. But Natasha had been his friend for a long time, and he owed her his silence. “If Amora’s coming to town, she’ll have a reservation at the finest hotel, a suite. Check private airstrips and incoming personal jets, limos … she’ll shop while she’s in town, high end boutiques and the like. Shoes. Lots of shoes.”

 

Coulson sighed, accepting Clint’s sidestep. “Don’t forget to talk to Pepper Potts; she has contact with lots of collectors through the Foundation as well as Tony and Stane.  She’s on the inside of that circle; wouldn’t surprise me if she can add some names to the list.”

 

“Good call. I’ll catch her tonight for cocktails; Obediah is coming to dinner. That should be fun,” Clint replied. “I’m even further down on his shit list than Tony so when I show up, Stark gets a night off from criticism.”

 

“I can see why he likes having you living there,” Coulson said. “Just don’t piss off Stane too much. We both know he can be dangerous when cornered.”

 

“Ah, now, that’s half the fun, getting him riled up in front of people.” Clint winked. “But I’ll be careful; I always am.”

 

“Unhuh,” Coulson murmured with a slight shake of his head. “You want to see how far you can go.”

 

“It’s a hobby of mine,” Clint agreed. “I do so like making people lose their cool. And their control.”

 

Coulson’s only reaction was a flicker of his eyelids; he was getting far too used to Clint’s flirting. Clint was going to have to find new ways to unnerve the buttoned up agent. “Go make your phone calls, then we’ll see what we do next.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Clint saluted, stood up, and sauntered out of the office.

* * *

 

“… and that’s when Solomon realized I’d already bought the matching statue for half the price!”

Obediah Stane’s voice echoed in the small salon, his cigar smoke filling the room with the scent of expensive tobacco. Just a few questions and Stane had launched into a series of stories about his acquisitions, a telling set of details that led Clint to a number of interesting conclusions, the first of which was that Stane had no compunction buying stolen art. And the second was that Stane had had dealings with Amora in the past. Only she would sell a Degas to three separate collectors and come out the winner in the ensuing chaos.

 

“So what did he do? He could hardly display half of a couple,” Clint asked, shaking a tumblr and pouring Pepper another dirty martini before refilling his own glass. “And I’m sure you didn’t sell yours.”

 

“I found a Hokusai he wanted.” Stane grinned, flashing his teeth. “Man has a weak spot for shunga. He couldn’t resist.”

 

“Tentacle porn.” Tony’s ice clinked in his glass as he downed the last swig of whiskey. “That’s Solomon’s guilty pleasure. Obie, here, he likes Biederer; some whips and chains do it for him.”

 

“That’s not a topic for a lady’s ears.” Obediah glanced at Pepper.

 

“Considering I brokered half those purchases, I think it’s safe to talk about your collection of erotic art.” Pepper calmly sipped her drink. “Tony has me tracking down that Avril right now.”

 

“Don’t bother; it’s a fake,” Clint told her. “The real one’s in the Saudi Royal family compound.”

 

“Which, I suppose, you sold them?” Tony filled up glass.

 

Obediah’s phone rang and he looked at the display. “It’s the Italians; I have to take this.”

 

He walked away and Tony wrinkled his nose. “He won’t be back for awhile. There’s been a slight delay in the delivery time and he’ll need to go into the office to work it out.”

 

“The brunette or blonde?” Pepper asked.

 

“The redhead in accounting,” Tony said before he turned his attention to Clint. “Now, tell me your new case, the one with stolen erotic art, and I’ll give you the names of people who are in the market for that kind of stuff.”

 

“Besides yourself?” Clint tipped his drink towards Tony. “You wouldn’t happen to be interested in some sketches of murdered women, would you?”

 

“The Waterhouse Rippers?” Pepper was the one who answered. “I heard a rumor they were going on the market.”

 

“Pep’s a closet romantic; she loves the pre-raphaelites as well as those abstract modern pieces that are blocks of color.” Leaning against an Chippendale buffet,  Tony absent sat his glass on the stained top. Pepper glared and he moved it to the tray.

 

“Any hint of who might be interested in buying them?” Clint asked.

 

“Damn inefficiency!” Stane stormed through the room. “Six days. Six extra days.”

 

The slamming of the front door heralded Stane’s exit. “One of these days, you’re going to go too far, Tony,” Pepper said.

 

“Come on, you know the factory in Tennessee is running two weeks behind. Six days isn’t going to make a difference.” Tony chuckled. “See, I do listen in meetings. Sometimes.”

 

Pepper had perfected her exasperated eye roll; the sigh was ever so slight and yet said it all. “I’ll get a list together for you in the morning,” she told Clint. “Shouldn’t be too many names.”

 

“I’d appreciate it,” Clint said.

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony worms his way into the investigation. Amora's got a secret agenda. And Phil has a face palm moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so I've changed the chapters to 8 for this. Plot keeps getting in the way of the stripping.

Louboutin pumps clicked on the pavement, her pencil thin skirt shortened her stride but drew admiring glances from the pinstripe suited businessmen who watched her traverse the short stretch of pavement between the taxi and the revolving door. Taking off her Bulgari sunglasses, she tucked them into her Hermes purse and approached the security desk. 

 

“Can I help you?” A young guard -- Japanese heritage, she’d guess, but American born by his accent -- asked. His eyes surveyed her quickly, pausing at her purse and skimming her green jacket for bulges. Professional; he didn’t linger on her breasts so perfectly framed by the deep lapel of her silk blouse. She’d have to go with confident and all business. 

 

“I have a nine a.m. appointment with Ms. Potts.” A card appeared and she handed it over. “Arna Galdor of Urnes Appraisals.”

 

“One moment.” Super quick computers pulled up the picture she’d uploaded for this identity, complete with passport and visa information. “Ah, yes, Ms. Galdor. If you take the elevator at the far end on the left. It will take you to the correct floor.” 

 

“Thank you.” The doors swished opened as she came to them and closed just as efficiently. With no buttons to push, the car rose on its own; cameras hidden but there, security as subtle as it was top notch. Tucking the lock of brown hair behind her ear, she discretely straightened her wig. Flipping through her catalogue of expressions, she settled on a pleasant smile with just a hint of exhaustion -- jet lag from Europe could be such a bitch for a few days -- and tucked her shoulders back. 

 

“Ah, Ms. Galdor.” The secretary, an older woman in a sharp pantsuit and tiny pearls in her ears, came around the reception desk. “May I get you a coffee? Espresso? Tea?” 

 

“I’d love a cappuccino. I’m still on Paris time, I’m afraid. Woke up far too early.” She toned her look to one of polite acceptance, a bland brunette not worth remembering. Pausing to look at a Brendan Monroe painting gracing the wall, she took the cup when offered and sipped at the hot liquid. Wandering the waiting room, she catalogued each art work, estimating what they’d bring on market today, thinking of names that would buy them. 

 

“Ms. Potts will see you now,” the secretary said. 

 

Following her down a hall and through a set of door, she entered a lovely office, appointed in an elegant style that mixed French provencial and contemporary essentialism, making the two seemingly opposite aesthetics work together.  Art work was spaced out on the walls, left to stand on their own effect, each a masterpiece in its own right; she didn’t recognize the artists of two paintings and a glasswork, but the others were up-and-comers, poised to become well-known. 

 

“An Aubrey Kawasaki. How delightful!” She didn’t have to fake her interest in the wash of grey on a wooden panel.  “And this one, by the door. I don’t know the painter, but it is glorious. Such passion in the sworls of red and depression in the blues.”

 

“She feels things deeply,” Pepper Potts said, coming out from behind her desk. “So nice to finally meet you in person; I was beginning to think you were a myth.” 

 

“I do value my privacy; being unknown has its benefits. Thank the gods for the internet; I do so much of my work that way.” She didn’t offer her hand, choosing a sympathetic half-smile and a nod. “But you’ve been such a worthy adversary that I wanted to meet face-to-face while I was in town.” 

 

“Please, sit.” Pepper led her to a seating area and taking one of the chairs for herself.  “What brings you to New York? I hope it’s not the Avril; it’s a fake.” 

 

She had to give Potts credit; the woman knew her art from an exceptional forgery. “Alas, I too have reached that conclusion. A damn shame; I had a very interested buyer in Madrid. He’d have given you a run for Stark’s money.” 

 

“You always drive a hard bargain.” Such an elegant suit Potts wore; she wondered what designer it was. Probably someone up-and-coming; that was Pepper’s modus operandi. 

 

“Thank you.” It was a compliment in her line of work. “You’ve got the best of me on quite a few occasions. I’m not used to losing a commission. And you’ve such a wonderful eye for new talent; I’d love take you to lunch while I’m here and hear your thoughts on some names I keep hearing.”

 

“Of course. I think I’m free …” Pepper checked her phone, clicking through a number of pages. “... Thursday early? Say 10 a.m.? We could make that coffee; there’s a lovely little cafe just two blocks from here.” 

 

“Excellent. I have a meeting later that day with a client, but my morning is free.” She’d have the sale about ready to close by then and, she hoped, at least two more consignments in her hand. “We’ll have time to chat; I’m afraid today I’ve so much to do and I’m so jet lagged. No rest for the wicked … isn’t that what they say?”

 

“I understand completely.” Pepper rose. “That’s every day for me. Thursday it is.” 

 

Leaving the building, Amora turned the corner and hailed a taxi, confident the listening device she’d planted would yield her invaluable information. Tony Stark would soon be hers to manipulate, and she smiled to herself as the dollar signs added up. She’d let them in on the bidding for the Waterhouse sketches and set them up for a spectacular fall. After all, her client could care less about collateral damage; as long as he got what he was after, she could increase her bottom line all she wanted. And she’d always wanted to seduce a playboy, break his heart and take his money. Sounded like fun.

* * *

 

“Mr. Stark.” Phil stopped on the busy sidewalk, blocking Tony and making the billionaire look at him. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but this is a federal matter …”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Feeb secrets, hush, hush, I got it.” Tony pushed him aside and kept walking, forcing Phil to keep up with him. “Pepper gave the list to Clint but this is my hunch so if you want the info, you have to humor me. What’s the use of owning half the buildings in Manhattan if you can’t drop in when you want?” 

 

“I still don’t see what a new nightclub has to do with the case we are not going to discuss.” Phil was going to have to explain the meaning of privacy to Clint again. Not that keeping something from Stark was easy; the man was like a dog with a bone, worrying out all the little details. “Especially not at 10 o’clock in the morning.” 

 

“Ah, well, that shows what you know. This is prime time for dancers to practice for the big opening night. And it just happens that I know one of the young ladies who will be headlining the main stage. Bought her a lovely emerald necklace as a parting gift and she occasionally does private shows, all legal and above board, for special events. Has a degree from Juilliard, no lie.”  Tony turned a corner and kept going. “She is currently dating one of the biggest producers of torture porn in the U.S. who just so happens to own a partial interest in the club. See? Don’t even need seven degrees to get to Kevin Bacon.” 

 

“And I’m here because?”  Phil wasn’t really clear on that part; Stark had descended on the office to take Phil out for coffee. Like a whirlwind, Phil found himself caught in the cross currents. “You could have just told me and I’d send some agents to talk to her.” 

 

“Yeah, no go on the agent thing. Her brother may or may not be involved in some shady backroom deals, so you wouldn’t be the first fed to try and get information from here. Now me? She’ll have no problem talking to me and a producer of Broadway musicals looking for the next Rita Moreno.” 

 

He paused before a set of double doors blacked out with paper over the glass panels. A construction tarp hid the sign above and the windows were shuttered. The inside lobby was tastefully decorated in muted blues and purples, three archways with curtains fronted by podiums. A set of wide stairs curved up to a balcony level, a golden rope barring the way.  Unbothered by the surroundings, Stark ploughed through the middle archway, pushing aside the heavy black drapes as he entered the next room. Like an upscale nightclub, tables filled most of the space with the multi level stage taking up the far wall, protruding outwards. Wooden bars lined both the northern and southern walls, stain gleaming in the crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. 

 

On the boards, a curvy figure moved, arms extending, legs long and toes pointed. The sultry voice of Lana Del Rey filled the space around her; not so much a strip tease but modern dance that told a story of a broken heart and a trip to the west coast. Phil was mesmerized by the lean muscles and smooth skin, the sinuous movements as the woman stalked across the stage. 

 

“Damn, I’d forgotten how good she is,” Tony said, breaking the spell. “She really does deserve to be dancing in the big leagues.” 

 

“Tony Stark!” A man as wide as he was tall sauntered from one of the bars. “I sent you an invitation to opening night; you’re a few days early.” 

 

“That’s me, Carl. I come when I want to.” Tony grinned. “I wanted to bring Bill by to see the place. High end strip club … sorry, gentlemen’s club, just like the olden days. Buy a membership and you’re in like Flynn. Restaurant upstairs, meeting rooms, shows, cigar bar … anything you could want.” 

 

“The York Society,” Carl said proudly. “I’m Carl Hathaway, club director and major domo. Always nice to meet a potential member, Mr. …” 

 

“Olson. William Olson.” Phil shook the man’s outstretched hand, the big signet ring biting into Phil’s palm. “Quite an act you have there; she’s amazing.” 

 

“Ah, Miss Betsy. She mixes elegance and the erotic in such a delightful way; we’ll have sold out shows in the main lounge for months.” His eyes narrowed. “You aren’t here to poach my dancers are you, Stark? I’ve already lost my headliner for The Rainbow Room. Left to take a role in Kinky Boots, if you can believe it.” 

 

“Tony! Darling!” The dancer flew off the stage and wrapped her arms around Stark, kissing his cheek and leaving bright red lipstick. “You are coming to opening night?.”

 

“Of course,” Tony assured her. “I wouldn’t miss it.” 

 

“Good. Beau’s going to be doing business all night; I’ve worked so hard on the choreography that I want someone to appreciate the nuances.” She turned her eyes towards Phil, taking in his dark blue suit and simple red tie. “Oh, where are my manners. I’m Elizabeth Moore.” 

 

“Bill Olsen.” Phil included his head towards her. “Always thought Tony had to be exaggerating your talent, but from what I saw up there, he’s being modest one your behalf.” 

 

“Well, thank you.” Betsy’s cheeks flushed. “I try to bring as much of my ballet training as I can. Erotic dancing is still dancing.” 

 

“I so agree,” Phil answered. 

 

“I like you,” Betsy said. “Tony, bring him to the show.” 

 

“You got it, darling.” Stark grinned at Phil, boxing him in neatly. “Bill wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

 

“Of course I wouldn’t,” was the only thing Phil could say. 

 

* * *

 

“Beauregard Martin Haverford Winston the Third.”  Maria slid a picture across the table to each of them. “Fourth generation, great grandfather made his money in railroads and shipping. Beau fancies himself a patron of the arts; he spreads his money freely, from the ballet to the Met to controlling interest in a chain of upscale strip clubs. He’s also a connoisseur of erotic art; his collection is considered the finest in the United States. There are rumors he has a private gallery, one few people have ever seen, but all facts indicate he buys through intermediaries and isn’t a seller.” 

 

“Could be a coincidence,” Fury said. “But I doubt it. Okay people, we need to get eyes and ears in that club for Winston’s meeting. Phil here’s going in as Tony Stark’s date …”

 

“Guest. Not date.” Phil had been protesting that detail for the last hour to no avail; Nick was having too much fun needling him. 

 

“Since the club’s members or guests only, we’ll have to go with employees. Steve, Maria, that’s your in; see how fast you can make it happen.” Fury continued as if Phil hadn’t spoken. “Stark has ordered up the the security system and blueprints of the building.” 

 

“Bucky’s already inside; he knows the security firm providing bouncers,” Steve said. “I can join him.” 

 

“You just want out of getting your ass pinched as you serve drinks.” Maria sighed. “Great, that leaves me on bar duty.” 

 

“Could go as a dancer.” Fury switch his sass to her. “Pasties and g-strings don’t cost too much; I think the budget can handle it.” 

 

Maria’s eyebrow arched and her face went stone cold. “No,” she replied. “Besides I mix a mean martini.” 

 

Fury rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever. Now hop to it.” 

 

They all knew a dismissal when they heard it; Phil was the last one up, organizing his papers before he tucked them in a folder. As he turned to go, Fury caught his elbow and held him back. 

 

“Where’s your boy, Barton?” he asked. 

 

“With Pepper Potts, going through the list she came up with. I was on my way there when Stark called.”  Phil didn’t keep his annoyance from his voice; despite giving them the best lead they had, Stark was still a pain in the ass. “We can cross check them with Winston’s known associates, see if there are connections.” 

 

“Good. Send him on a wild goose chase if you have to. Last thing we need is him in the middle of this operation,” Fury said, 

 

Phil’s phone rang; he glanced at the screen. “Well, speak of the devil.” He answered it. “Barton, do you have …”  He paused, listened,  and promptly wanted to bang his head against his desk. “And you’re already on the way?” Sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Stark set it up?” Fury groaned and plopped down in one of the office chairs. “Yeah, I’ll meet you at Stark’s. Two hours.” 

 

“Don’t fucking tell me. I don’t want to know.” Fury shook his head. 

 

“Seems the club has a new star dancer.” Phil couldn’t believe he didn’t see this one coming; it was just his bad karma. “Evon Hawke aka Clint Barton. Seems he’s got a following in Miami.” 

 

“This is your fault, you know,” Fury said. “He’s your boy.”

 

“He is not … ah, hell, Nick. I’m going to have to go see him perform.” Phil put his head in his hands. “What am I going to do?”

 

“Ain’t getting near that one with a ten foot pole.” Fury paused then grinned. “Get it? Ten foot. Pole?” 

 

“I hate you.” Phil gave in and banged his forehead on his desk. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many stripper puns to make! Poor baby Phil. Now he's got Tony AND Clint to deal with. And Nat will show up very soon ...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint meets the rest of the dancers, Tony gets on Phil's nerves, and Bucky has a surprise guest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm working ahead on the story; as I finish a chapter, I post another one. That's the posting schedule :)))

“I hope you’re as good as your reputation.” The club manager led Clint backstage, winding through the dressing tables and racks of costumes. “Not that I mean to doubt your resume and Stark’s word, but the members are paying a premium to see the main attraction and they’re a demanding bunch.” 

 

Clint surveyed the unpainted walls and cheap furniture. The money obviously didn’t extend to the workers’ areas, just the patron’s sections of the bar. Still, the salary he’d named was decent, enough to actually live on when added to tips. 

 

“Don’t worry,” he replied. “I can handle it.” 

 

“Well, let me get you introduced to the technicians and designer … oh, here’s Ari now. Ari! Come meet the new headliner.” Carl called to the small figure dressed all in black from snug jeans to simple t-shirt. “Ariana Black, this is …” 

 

“Evon Hawke. I caught your show in Copenhagen. Excellent use of minimalistic lighting and body paint.” Natasha held out her hand and Clint shook it. “We’ll have to keep it simple; we don’t have time for anything too elaborate.” 

 

“Sometimes that’s better.” Finding her here shouldn’t surprise him; she had a way of being just where she needed to be. Usually right in the middle of trouble. “I’m thinking more Vegas of the 40s than Bombay.” 

 

“Buble Sinatra or Timberlake?” They’d worked together so long that she could practically read his mind. “You’d look good in blue.” 

 

“Silver suit with a pinstripe,” he replied. “I’m more of a winter.” 

 

She cocked an eyebrow and looked him up and down. “We can do that. You got your costume with you? We can block and do a filter test at the same time.” 

 

“Well, it seems you’re in the right hands. Make him look good, Ari. There’s a lot riding on this.” Carl nodded and headed off, already working on another problem, this one handled.

 

“I can’t believe you pulled that alias out of the closet,” Natasha said. 

 

“I haven’t been in the closet in years, darlin’.”  Clint winked, playing up his role as other dancers filtered into the room. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. You, however, don’t listen to good advice.” 

 

“Now where would I be if I didn’t take chances?” So she’d gotten his message, just chose to ignore it. Not a big surprise. “Like your routine. Timberlake? Honestly?”

 

“Suit porn is always sexy..” He counted the other performers -- five so far -- and noted they were all watching his every move. “Unless someone’s already worked up a nine-to-five dance.” 

 

“Let’s see, Brad’s the cowboy, Mason the cop, Julio’s a magician …” Natasha began listing the other routines. 

 

“Magician? That’s creative,” Clint said. 

 

A man with dark curly hair and a Bolivian accent replied, “I make their money disappear!” 

 

“... Sam’s a pool, excuse me, cabana boy, and Wash’s a werewolf,” she finished.

 

“Ever since those Twilight movies, I’ve had more shows than I can book,” the slim man with a British accent said. 

 

“You that Evon, the one who did ‘Who’s Your Daddy?’ with bo staffs?” a dark skinned dancer asked. “Was it really a Crown Prince you got on the stage?” 

 

“The Duke of Argyll.” Clint changed the name every time he told the story. “And it was nunchucks.” 

 

“Dude, no way.” The dancer shook his head. “That’s hardcore.” 

 

“Well, it’s not going to be anything if we don’t get moving,” Natasha said. “Light and sound check, gang. And you’re changing your song; I’ve got a perfect one for you.” 

 

* * *

 

“No. Absolutely not.” Phil shook his head; he’d stomp his foot too if he thought it would help. “There’s no way you’re going to be involved; you shouldn’t even know about the case at all, Stark.”

 

“Dude, I got you and your team inside; you wouldn’t have a case without me. I’m going to be front row for Clint’s unveiling.” Tony wiggled his eyebrows. “Can’t wait.” 

 

Phil clenched his jaw and exhaled. As much satisfaction as he’d get from punching Stark in the face, he was a better man than that. Instead, he turned to Clint. “And you. Sharing information? Running off half-cocked to insert yourself without asking.”

 

Spewing the sip of whiskey he’d taken, Tony doubled over laughing, barely remembering to sit his glass on the buffet before he spilled the rest. “Oh my God.”  He practically convulsed. “Half-cocked! Insert? I can’t.” 

 

“Oh, grow up, Tony.” Pepper walked into the room. “That’s an Aubusson you’re getting alcohol on.” 

 

“But, Pep! Half-cocked!” Tony sputtered. “Male strippers?”

 

“Yes, I get the joke.” Pepper poured herself some Grey Goose. “And I agree you shouldn’t go alone; I’ve purchased a membership for myself as well. The chance to see Evon Hawke perform is too good to pass up.  I missed your Denmark run; three nights only? Really?”

 

“A little mystery is a good thing,” Clint said. “I’ll make sure you have the best seat in the house.” 

 

“This is surreal.” Phil took a good swig of his scotch. “I’ve completely lost control of this operation.” 

 

Clint patted him on the shoulder. “Control’s just an illusion anyway,” he said. “First rule of grifting; shit happens. Learn to go with the flow.”

 

“Zen and the art of the con. You could write a book.” Maybe it was the scotch or the inevitability of Clint’s scheme, but Phil was able to muster up a smile. “But leave my name out of it. I have a career to think about.” 

 

* * *

 

James stepped out of the shower, reached for a towel, and started to dry off. He’d spent the whole day chasing the ghost of the Enchantress; six hours hunched over a computer, tracing IP addresses, haunting the online illegal auctions, and not only were his shoulders aching but his nerves were frayed thin. How could one woman be so hard to find, especially when she left a trail of destruction in her wake?

 

“You’ve been working out.” She leaned on the doorframe, her red hair a riot of curls that fell over her shoulders. “Added some bulk since last time.” 

 

He didn’t bother to tie the towel around his hips, dropping it on the floor instead and walking into the bedroom. At some point, the Black Widow just appearing had become old hat. “The choice in hotels is either watch bad movies or exercise. Swimming laps seemed a better idea.”  The gun on the bedside table was close; he moved around that side and ruffled in the dresser. “What are you doing here, Natalia? Or should I call you Natasha?”

 

“Ah, zvezda moya, how could I resist your gravitational pull? Especially after you sent your warning.”  She moved like a cat, prowling across the industrial carpet, dragging a hand over the small table, messing up his notes. “Such a thoughtful gesture.” 

 

“Cut the shit.” Picking a pair of black briefs, he slipped them on. “It’s been a long frustrating day and I don’t have time to play.” 

 

She caught his chin, turned his face to hers; emerald green eyes took account of every line and the dark circles. Stroking her thumb along his jaw, her look softened. “You need rest, James. Don’t push yourself so hard.” 

 

“Stop it.” He wrapped his fingers around her delicate wrist, yanking her hand away. “I’m done with this game. Next time you touch me, you better intend to follow through. No more teasing.  I can’t do this anymore. Just ask me what you want to know.” 

 

Stepping back, the coquettish look disappeared, replaced by one of contemplation. “Okay. You’re serious. Good; now we can get to business. What have you heard that made you warn Clint?” 

 

“Nothing specific. It’s more of a … feeling.”  He shook his head, unsure how to give voice to his suspicions. “The number of whispers about Russian artworks. It’s too many at once. And then all these new torture porn pieces.”

 

“You think someone’s seeding the market to flush me out.”  She didn’t question his appraisal. “Wait for me to show my head and cut it off.” 

 

“You’ve no shortage of enemies,” he said, and that was true. Just because she was paranoid didn’t mean there weren’t people out to get her. She’d crossed a number of nasty types in her career.  

 

“It’s a gift,” she replied. He’d like to believe the smile on her face was an honest one, but he’d learned he couldn’t read her. “The Waterhouse Rippers here in New York. But they have to know I won’t go easy; if they’re smart enough to set this up, they’d send someone they think could take me out. You, for example.” 

 

“Me?” That surprised him; he wasn’t sure he would win in a fair fight. If he ever needed to take her down, his plan was to come at her sideways. 

 

“I’m standing here talking to you, aren’t I? Who better?” She raised her eyebrow and quirked up one side of her lips. “Besides Barton, you’re the only other person who sees me on a regular basis.” 

 

“I’m … You ... “ Smooth. Real smooth, Barnes, he thought. “I …”

 

“You’re too much of a straight shooter, I know. You’ll haul me off to jail, but I’m sure these guys want a more permanent solution.” So matter of fact about someone wanting to kill her. 

 

“That may be true. The Enchantress is the broker for the sketches.”  Now the overkill of the hire made sense; Amora’s ruthlessness was a match for Natasha’s careful planning. 

 

“She’s a loose canon; she’ll do what she wants and she hates me.” Natasha sank into a chair. “Well, this complicates things.” 

 

“I don’t suppose you’d agree to wait this out on the sidelines,” he said, already knowing her answer. 

 

“Oh, no, I’m going to be right in the middle of the action.” A slow smile crawled across her face. “I’m going to be the bait.” 

 

* * *

 

Clint flicked off the light and laid back on the bed. Through the glass wall, he could see the lights, the glow that never faded, a constant background to city life. It comforted him, being able to see the towers and glimpses of sky; a reminder he wasn’t in prison anymore. Egyptian cotton sheets, a light quilt, silk boxers … he should be content but he was worried. Natasha wasn’t going to step aside; she’d insist on going head first into danger. Clint was used to the conspiracy theories and soap boxes Natasha built her world around. Hell, he was a superstitious in his own way; Barney had taught him to use his wit and charm but to never forget the element of luck. If someone was after Nat, she still wouldn’t stop trying to get the sketches; she’d just take down the enemy along the way. 

 

Plus, there was the little niggling fact of Phil Coulson. The growing acknowledgement that Clint liked working with Phil, enjoyed their repartee and solving cases. It fed his 1940s fantasy, the one with suits and fedoras and private eyes; almost as satisfying as a good con, catching the bad guy had its perks, the first one being doing it with Phil at his side. That feeling, though, was dangerous; he hadn’t wanted to lie to Phil today; a part of him wanted to tell him about Natasha and Barnes’ warning. Usually, that would be Clint’s signal to pull out, when he got too close to a mark. But Phil wasn’t a mark and Clint didn’t want to leave. 

 

And then there was his debut performance in less than two days. Clint had no scruples about stripping … hell, he’d made a lot of money that way when the jobs ran dry or he needed a persona to hide behind … nor did he care about doing it in front of an audience with Stark and others watching. No, if he was honest, it was the thought of Phil sitting in the front row that had his gut twisted up. He’d never admit it to anyone, not even Natasha, but Phil’s opinion of him mattered. Phil, the man who’d caught him, sent him to prison then got him out and gave him a new lease on life. Phil, the nerdy guy who collected Captain America trading cards and knew almost as much as Clint did about Renaissance art. Phil, sexy as hell in his suits with blue eyes that sparkled with humor or clouded with displeasure. Phil, whose presence would be a major distraction during the show. Or maybe it was the fear that Phil would find the whole thing distasteful. That he wouldn’t care or be interested or be … 

 

Clint dragged in a deep breath and shut down his train of thought. Worrying about Phil’s reaction was only setting his brain spinning and he needed to shut down, get some rest. Maybe he’d dream up a better way to protect Natasha. 

 

But, he suspected, he’d be dreaming about blue eyes and a nice fitting suit. Just like most nights. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Black Widow spins into the story. Clint meets someone with an ax to grind with Stane, and Amora makes a new plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. Stripping is on the way. For now, the plan is in motion.

“That’s too much,” Clint said. Sweat ran along his collarbone, soaking into the Under Armor shirt he was wearing. “I’m stripping not doing MMA fighting.” 

 

“Whiner.” Natasha nudged his shoulder and passed him a bottle of water, still icy from the cooler. “Take a break and come back with another option. We’ll give it a try; if it works, fine, if not, we go with my suggestion.” 

 

“I could go back to my original plan,” he grumbled, but she had already moved on to Julio, talking about flash powder and lighting. He cracked the cap and drank half the bottle in one long swallow. An ache in his left knee was a constant reminder of how soft he’d gotten of late; he needed to take better advantage of Tony’s in house gym and pool. Wiping away his sweat with a towel, he watched Julio dance; the others were good, all of them, trained in various dance styles. These were performances first, stripping second, and Clint could see why this place was going to do well. Elegance was infused in the room, from the furniture to the acts themselves. With both male and female members, the audience would be mixed, changing the dynamic. Carl was even encouraging couples of all genders to join together; he had plans to bring in big names for special events. 

 

The main doors pushed open; two men came in, Carl trotting behind them. Clint didn’t recognize the first one, but the second he knew all too well. Ducking behind the curtain, he found a gap between the heavy crepe to view their progress to the bar. 

 

“Which one are you hiding from? Stane or O’Warren?” Sam asked, leaning over Clint’s shoulder and peering out the crack. 

 

Only years of practice with Natasha kept Clint from jumping at the sound. “Stane. Is O’Warren’s the other guy?” 

 

“He’s the owner of the club; well, he’s the frontman for the consortium that put up the money. Has about fifteen clubs in D.C., Philly, and New York. Worth steering clear of; just pretend you don’t see anything about his business and you’ll be okay,” Sam said. “Now Stane? Man’s a piece of work. All polished, rich CEO, but beneath the surface? Well, it’s all rumors but I hear he’s in the arms business.” 

 

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Clint took a second look at the African-American; intelligent brown eyes looked right back. “He’s got his hands in a lot of pies.” 

 

“You’re not a Fed.” Sam tilted his head. “But you’re something more than a dancer.” 

 

“Is anybody just a dancer? We all have day jobs that pay shit, right?” Clint laughed it off, but he angled himself to keep an eye on Stane, a move that didn’t go unnoticed by Sam. “How’d you get into the biz?” 

 

“If that’s your way of asking who I am and why I know about Obediah Stane, the answer’s simple. Served overseas, got home, had issues, dealt with them, got involved with helping others, and now I volunteer at the VA. Pay’s not shit; there is no pay. So I decided to put my degree from the NY School of Performing Arts to work.” He shrugged. “Used a lot of Stark Industry weapons while I was in Kandahar; saw a lot of them used against us.” 

 

This time, Clint noticed Sam’s stance, the developed muscles of his arms and the tell tale hints of military bearing. With the new wrinkle of Stane’s presence, maybe they could use another set of eyes. “Seems the man has pissed off a lot of people.”

 

“Seems like.” Sam slapped him on the shoulder. “If you decide you need another set of hands, man, let me know. Wouldn’t mind seeing either of them in hot water.” 

 

As soon as the other man ambled off, Clint pulled out his phone and dialed. “We’ve got a problem,” he said. “Obediah Stane’s here with the owner O’Warren.” 

 

“Damn it,” Phil cursed. “I’m on it.” 

 

Hanging up, he retreated to the dressing room; he had some research to do on one Samuel Wilson.

 

~~++~~

 

“Jesus, O’Warren’s name set off all kinds of red flags.” Maria dropped into the chair opposite Phil’s. “Got Organized Crimes and Cybercrime leaving messages. The man’s got mob ties out the wazoo and yet they can’t lay a finger on him.” 

 

“Cybercrime?” Phil asked. He chafed at being in the office, stuck sifting through files, but Thor had come through with information on Amora, the best they had so far. 

 

“Online pay-for-porn. But they can’t link him to any of it.” Maria shook her head. “Nasty stuff. Some of it’s child porn. There’s a special place in hell for guys like him.” 

 

“Anything on his connection to Stane? Give me something, Hill.” Phil was worried; too many coincidences were piling up where Stane was concerned. Patterns were Phil’s strong suit, and he just needed a few more pieces to put this one together. 

 

“Stane’s a patron of a D.C. club owned by O’Warren, but then so are a couple senators and an ex-President.” Maria sighed. “Nothing illegal about watching exotic dancers. If there’s more going on, Stane’s keeping it separate.” 

 

“Damn it.” Phil pushed his chair back and stood. “I feel like we’re constantly playing catch up.” 

 

“Worry no more, boss man.” Darcy sauntered into the room, laptop in hand. “You’re going to owe me a iced mocha cappuccino latte for this one. Almost missed it; the IPs are in an falling alphanumeric pattern …” 

 

“Summary first, details later,” Phil told her, forestalling a long explanation; Darcy sometimes forgot that not everyone talked computer like she did. 

 

“Fine,” she huffed, plopping down on the edge of Phil’s desk. “They thought they were being smart, the person who set up the shell companies but the algorithm they used is actually the give away. See, normally the IPs are assigned by …” 

 

“Can you trace them back to the originator?” Phil cut in. 

 

“Can I ... ?” She huffed and pulled up a page on her laptop. “Gargantus Corp is a front for Kang Incorporated with is a subsidiary of Technovore. Gets a little crazy from there, but the trail ends at, get this, Midas International. Whoever came up with this names is definitely a guy. Anyway, Midas is also, wait for it, an investor in Samurai Steel Entertainment, which owns a number of properties including movie theaters, malls, and a string of gentlemen’s clubs operated by one Darren O’Warren.”

 

“Dummy corporations almost impossible to trace.” Maria shook her head. “Cybercrime will eat this up.” 

 

“No, no, no. This is white collar’s case,” Darcy protested. “They got Al Capone for taxes; we’ll get these guys for money laundering.” 

 

“Do we have a link to Stane or SI?” It was too much to hope for; Stane was too smart to be easy to catch. 

 

“Not yet,” Darcy admitted. “But I’m running corporation names to see if any pop.” 

 

“Good work, Darce,” Phil said. “Now let’s see what we can find about our mysterious Enchantress.” 

 

“Oh, I’ve got a search going; Thor gave me a couple aliases she’s used. If anything comes up I’ll let you know.” 

 

~~++~~

 

“Alright, Hawke, I’m hungry; you can buy me a banh mi from the food truck down the street while you make your losing argument to up the tempo.” Natasha flicked off the lights and darkened the stage area. “Then you can do it one more time my way.” 

 

His thighs ached, his shoulders strained, and his stomach was growling. They’d skipped lunch and worked straight through; the clock read 4:03 and Clint needed a big cup of coffee. He downed half a bottle of gatorade and tossed on a pair of sweats and a tank top before following Natasha down the stairs to the stage door. 

 

“Hey, we’re grabbing a sandwich at the Paris truck. Want anything?” He asked Steve who was on security detail. Removing his anklet didn’t make Fury happy; he’d only agreed if Clint wore a short range tracking patch and checked in with Steve to be walked out when he was done. 

 

“Nah, already ate,” Steve replied, glancing at Natasha. “Thanks anyway.”

 

The truck was just down the block; ordering a whole Paris special on fresh baked bread, Clint tore into the sandwich as soon as they sat down on a bench in the small park just down the block. 

 

“You are a slave driver,” Clint said around mouthfuls of the delicious food. “Two dances? Really?” 

 

“You’ve gone soft,” she replied, nibbling along her half of a chicken banh mi. “Give me a month and I’ll whip you back in shape. Stark’s got a gym in that mansion, doesn’t he?” 

 

“What part of ‘I was in prison’ do you not remember?” Clint shot back. “Not exactly the place to take pole dancing classes.” 

 

She grinned and her eyes sparkled. “Oh I bet you’d make it work.”

 

“True.” He would have if he’d needed to. Thank God the place had been filled with embezzlers and Wall Street types. “So, what do you know about Wilson? He’s got keen eyes.” 

 

“He blames Stane for his wingman’s death; they were para-rescue and came under fire from SI long-range batteries owned by Afghani rebels.” Natasha’s paranoia meant she checked everyone’s background. Everyone. Sometimes Clint worried about her obsessive need to know; other times, it had saved his skin. “Worked in DC before he came up here; he volunteers for the VA, leading support groups down in Hell’s Kitchen. Man has balls, I’ll give him that. Taking on Stane by himself is hardcore.” 

 

“Can we trust him?” Clint asked, cracking the lid on his tea and taking a swallow. 

 

“We can use his hatred; I trust that,” Natasha replied. 

 

They ate a couple more bites in silence before Clint spoke again. “What’s the scoop on O’Warren?” 

 

“Man runs very successful clubs. Pays his dancers well, benefits and everything. Hires good security, keeps patrons under control, offers a lot to members. Spends money on the furnishings and decor; keeps it all very low-key and classy. Even hired two well-known chefs to oversee the restaurant and cafe. Very forward thinking -- male, female, gay, straight, bi -- he doesn’t make a difference. If you can pay, you can find a room you’re comfortable in.” She swung her feet as she munched another bite. “He’s laundering money and he’s doing a damn good job of it. Some of it’s mob, some is from overseas interests, and a chunk from Stane.” 

 

Another few beats and Clint finished his sandwich, wadded up the paper in had been wrapped in and tossed it into a nearby trash can. “Should I ask?” 

 

“No sign of the Wicked Witch.” Natasha shrugged. “If she’s here, she’s keeping a low profile.” 

 

“Or she’s biding her time.” Clint stretched his arms above his head. “I’ve got this nagging feeling I’m missing something. What’s she doing? Why the extra days just to make a deal?” 

 

“That’s what I aim to find out,” Natasha said. “Now, back to work. You have a reputation to maintain, Hawke boy. Nothing half-assed for you. Besides, your Suit might be watching.” 

 

Clint sighed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t you start too,” he groaned. 

 

She just smiled and stood. “Shake that ass, darling. We’ve got a show to put on.” 

 

~~++~~

 

Phil dropped his keys into the wooden bowl his mother had brought back from Fiji; his wallet and badge he laid on the marble topped antique table just inside the door. He didn’t bother to flip the light on, using the clocks on the cable box and the microwave to navigate the short hallway to the kitchen. A small living room on his left melted seamlessly into an even smaller dining area; the kitchen was compact and updated with stainless steel appliances and granite countertops. Not that he had time to cook much despite enjoying it; Phil was rarely home long enough to do more than program the coffee maker. Once, he’d thought about planting some herbs out back, an idea of ceramic planters lining the little stone patio. But then he’d started chasing a certain con artist named Clint and he’d been home even less. 

 

Opening the fridge, he pulled out a bottle of water and eyed the leftover options. A box of moo goo gai pan, three dumplings, a couple slices of Hawaiian pizza, and an iffy looking half a hoagie roll. A sad state of affairs, but pretty much par for the course; his life was boring and solitary, or at least it had been until Clint entered the picture. Nuking four day old pizza in a small two bedroom house  hadn’t been how he imagined his life. A dog, at least. He should have a Heinz 57 mutt to greet him. Something to show for the years that had passed. 

 

He took three bites then stuffed the rest down the garbage disposal, appetite gone. Carrying the bottle of water upstairs, he undressed down to his boxers, pulling back the covers of his double bed  Brushing his teeth, he didn’t look too closely in the mirror; he didn’t want to see the lines around his eyes, the touches of grey at his temples. A long day with little progress, and Phil was tired, a sure recipe for self doubt. He needed sleep; tomorrow was going to be a long day. 

 

But he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking of everything that could go wrong. He ran the plan, detail by detail, went back over the missing pieces, the unknowns. Worried about it all until he finally started to drift, his mind turning to images of Clint on stage, walking along the runway, straight towards Phil. The slow pulse of the music lulled Phil under and he finally slipped into sleep.

 

~~++~~

 

For a rich man’s house, the security was out-of-date and far too easy to bypass. Wandering through the overly masculine office replete with dark walnut wainscoting and a wall full of stuffed animal heads. The glassy eyes always reminded Amora of that poem where the Duke hung a swath of bedsheet as proof of a wife’s virginity; men and their trophies. Gun or penis, it was all the same conquest to them. 

 

Pouring a glass of very expensive scotch, she stepped out of her pumps and sank her toes into the deep pile of the oriental carpet. The walls were lined with photos, posed men in suits, smiling, some powerful and others famous. An Indy car driver. An ex-president. An 80s TV star. A five star general. She perused the books on the shelf, learned he pretended to read biographies of world leaders, and paused in front of a black and white snapshot that was faded with age, tucked away between the spines. Howard Stark, his arm around a young Tony Stark who was holding on to the awkward barrel middle of an unusual robot. 

 

“Tony was fifteen when he made Dummy.” Obediah Stane walked into the room, heading straight for the scotch. “Kid’s brilliant. Damn shame, really.” He pour a glass and took a healthy swig. “You have the sketches?” 

 

“Of course.” She leaned against the desk, crossed her ankles and arched her back just slightly. “Safely tucked away.” 

 

“Don’t play games with me,” Stane all but growled. “I’m not a man you can manipulate. Some tits and ass aren’t going to make a difference, so pack it in.”

 

Amora laughed and straightened, tossing brown hair over her shoulder. “Worth a try,” she said, voice lighter and less sultry. “Takes a strong will to resist my charms. One of my best assets.” 

 

He visibly preened at the compliment; she kept her ‘I’m a simple woman’ smile plastered on her face. “And I’m paying well for your talents. Now, where do we stand on the operation?” 

 

“On track.” She could play the good soldier, let him believe he was in charge. That’s what he wanted, to run everything and keep the world under his thumb. “As you predicted, Potts was an easy sell. I’m having lunch with her tomorrow.” 

 

“Pepper’s got a good eye for art; sweet enough girl but she’s too weak to rein in Tony. If she stays out of the way, you can ignore her,” Stane declared. He sat down in one of the overstuffed leather chairs, taking a cigar from his personal humidor and cutting off the end. HIs dismissal of Virginia Potts rankled her; having gone head-to-head in bidding wars with the woman, Amora had a respect for her business acumen. Didn’t mean she wouldn’t take her out if Potts got in her way, but she’d never underestimate her opponent the way Stane was doing.  She chalked that up in her tally; when this was over, she’d take all of Stane’s sexist comments into consideration. 

 

“As you wish,” Amora assured him. Of course, sleeping with Pepper,  that was an entirely different question. She did have a thing for strawberry blondes. 

 

“Fine. Now go do what I hired you for. Shouldn’t you be meeting with what’s-his-name? The red herring? The one with too many names.” Stane waved his cigar at her. “Never mind. Just get it done.” 

 

It was a dismissal and it rankled. No man, especially not one as boorish and idiotic as this one, told her what to do. Palming the tiny cloner, she slipped it under the edge of the desk, close enough to allow her access to everything on his computer. She’d have the last word in this relationship; he just didn’t know it. 

 

“It will be done on my time table. Just as promised.” She let some of her anger flash in her eyes. “I”m a professional; you’ll do well to remember that.” 

 

“Of course.” He didn’t hide his sarcasm as he tipped his head. “Whatever you say. Oh, and don’t bother locking up on your way out. I’ll be changing all the codes once you leave.”

 

By the time she got off the subway and caught a taxi, the files were already transferring, a steady stream of Stane’s business that was now hers to peruse. A nice little side perk, she thought; At this rate, she’d know all of Stark Industries dirty little secrets within a month. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pepper has a date, Tony's right in the middle of the action, and Phil's drinking on the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on the road and had ten hours in the car to think about the whole White Collar AU universe. Came up with an amazing story arc; there will be six total of these stories and a surprise at the end. Hope you join me for the whole ride. :)

“So, I ended up buying a wonderful rare Dresden figurine.”  Amora turned her coffee cup in a circle, leaving a ring on the wooden table top. “All because I forgot my umbrella.” 

 

When Pepper laughed, her green eyes sparkled and, for a moment, Amora almost tossed her plan aside. Seducing the redhead would be easy and a pleasant way to spend the afternoon. Might even be a better way to get to Stark, if she had the time to play a long game. Unfortunately, she didn’t. 

 

“Well, you should visit Gallery 13 while you’re in town. Sharon has a wonderful nose for new artists. I browse there all the time.” Drinking the last of her coffee, she glanced at her high tech phone, an advanced model with the Stark logo emblazoned on the back. “I’d take you today, but my next appointment is on the way from the airport.”

 

“No rest for the wicked.” She worked on her flirting, was able to dial the perfect setting to match the situation. Just a light brush of interest mixed with a sense of humor. A little bit hesitant. “Now that my dinner appointment cancelled on me … some sort of emergency at a refinery in Saudi Arabia … I have a free evening. I’ll take the suggestion into account. Or I might see what tickets I can score at the concierge’s desk. A shame to come to New York and not catch a show.” 

 

The way Pepper’s eyes narrowed, she’d guessed the name of Amora’s client. Not exactly a secret that the head of a major oil company had a thing for gay erotic art, even if he was technically in the closet. “Actually, how do you feel about dancing? I’ve got an invite to the opening of a club tonight and it includes a guest. The chef is rumored to be amazing.” 

 

“O’Warren’s new flagship?” Amora sat forward, all eagerness and interest. “Tell me you have a seat for Evon Hawke’s debut. I missed him in Singapore.” 

 

“Front table. Show starts at eight, but they serve dinner starting at six. If you’re interested in.” Pepper’s cheeks flushed, her freckles showing on her pale skin; the innocence there amused Amora, and she tucked away the idea of a quick roll-in-the-hay with Tony Stark. A nice long romance of Virginia would be a delicious side dish for the next year or so. 

 

“I would love to,” she replied, leaning in as she spoke. “Let’s make it a date, shall we? I’ll pay for dinner.” 

* * *

 

“Here.” Tony pushed a glass into Phil’s hand. “Don’t give me that duty line of horseshit. You need a drink. You’re so tense your eyebrows are doing push ups.” 

 

It was an open admission when Phil took a swallow without a protest. “Everyone in place?” he asked over the comm units. 

 

Stark’s limousine slid through traffic, Happy Hogan driving through a rush hour crush of yellow cabs, delivery cyclists, and tourist drivers. The plan had only solidified a few hours before when Darcy had found the link between O’Warren and an offshore SI subsidiary. Maria, Steve, and Bucky were working the main room, watching for Amora to make the sale. Phil was on O’Warren; no reason they couldn’t take two birds with one stone. Liberate stole art as well as catch a money launderer. Through Clint, they’d learned that O’Warren planned to watch the six o’clock show with Betsy then move upstairs to oversee the premiere of his coup de gras, the famous Evon Hawke. Posing as Bill Olson, a potential investor with dirty money that needed clearing, Phil was the bait for O’Warren.  An arrest would open all his books and lead them, Phil hoped, back to Stane.

 

Through the flurry of preparations, Phil had only a few moments to talk to Clint before he left for rehearsal. What he’d wanted was time to make sure Barton was on the same page, which, Phil realized, useless to begin with. Clint always had his own agenda; Phil just wished he knew what it was. Still, Steve had his orders and Phil would be there as well but that thought didn’t make him feel any better about tonight.

 

“Carl’s bouncing all over the place,” Maria replied from her place at the bar in the main room. “I’ve got the tables covered.” 

 

“Front door and entryway locked down,” Barnes said. “No arrivals yet.” 

 

“Backstage and stairwell busy but clear,” Steve answered. “Dancers all accounted for.” 

 

“Barton?” Phil asked. 

 

“That’s Stark’s table.” Clint was obviously talking to someone else. “And the big boss man’s right next door. Margaret Andrews is over there and Representative Maloney in the corner by the stage. Make sure to play to the bigwigs.” 

 

“You have the tables wired?” Carrying on a two different conversations at the first time was one of Phil’s specialities. 

 

“Yeah, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.” Clint laughed. “At least I don’t have to wear a harness like yours” 

 

“Okay, we’re pulling up now. Everyone stay sharp.” Phil sipped the whiskey before he deposited the glass in a holder. “Best behavior, Stark, or I’ll taze you and lock you in a closet.” 

 

“You wouldn’t …” Tony stalled. “Yeah, you would.” 

 

“I would indeed,” Phil agreed.

 

The club had an underground entrance for celebrities and other members who wished to avoid the paparazzi flashing cameras. All access provided at an extra fee, of course. As Phil followed Stark out of the long black car and through a simple set of doors, he passed from concrete block to dark wood walls and plush burgundy carpet. Security dressed in simple suits, all holding discrete black wands to sweep over them before patrons could ascend the staircase. Phil took the lead and assured they were on Barnes’ side to check their membership fobs, a small device that also checked for explosive residue. Nodding them through, Barnes ignored Phil’s gun tucked carefully under his arm. Somewhere, guards were watching as they climbed the first then the second flight, trained in Israel to watch for suspicious behavior.

 

Then they were in the main foyer with walls of bullet-proof glass.  Signs pointed towards the various amenities from the show rooms to the spa to the main rooftop restaurant. Concierges wore gold pins to identify themselves as they mingled with the patrons. Before they made three steps across the floor, a young woman in a Dior navy blue dress addressed them by name. 

 

“Mr. Stark. Mr. Olson. So good to see you this evening. The main show has already begun; there will a break in about …” She checked her watch “... eight minutes. May I get you a drink then show you to your table?” 

 

“A drink sounds wonderful, Ms …” Tony went into flirting mode, a strategy Phil was learning was an automatic defense. 

 

“Debra. I’ll be your host for the evening. Anything you need, just ask.” She led them to a long bar; with one look, the bartender immediately responded. “We stock some of the best whiskeys in the world. Old Scout, Old Pulteney 1989, Glen Alba …”

 

“Do you have Knob Creek?” Phil asked, pulling her attention away from Stark for a moment. 

 

“Bourbon, Rye, or Smoked Maple?” Debra’s face remained the same pleasant demeanor, but her eyes widened just a bit. 

 

“Smoked Maple.” Phil shrugged at Tony’s look. “I like butterscotch, what can I say?” 

 

“Make it two doubles.” Tony slapped Phil on the back. “Bill knows his whiskey.” 

 

The drinks appeared in no time; Debra let them have a moment to sip them before she spoke again. “Will you be dining with us this evening? Ms. Potts and her guest have already ordered. I can arrange for your food to be delivered between Miss Betsy’s finale and the beginning of the Revue upstairs.” She produced two menus, a single page filled with elegant handwriting. “You can look at the choices and make your decision at any time, of course.” 

 

Phil declined; Tony tossed it back to her, telling her to surprise him. She took the response in stride, leading them to the doors so that when they opened and the lights went up inside, she took them straight to a table in the front.  

 

“Perky.” Tony watched the concierge depart, eyes on the sway of her hips. “In all the right places.” 

 

Around them, people rose from the seats, taking the break to head for the restrooms or get another drink. The crowd was mostly men and primarily older. A few twenty-somethings were towards the back, leaning on the bar. They all seemed pleased with the performances so far; Tony had insisted they be late, that he would never arrive on time much less early. By the number of nods and looks they were getting, Tony had been right. They’d caught the attention of the room by sliding in when they did. 

 

“Mr. Stark!” Carl the manager stopped at their table. “So delighted to see you. Does Debra have all your needs in hand?” 

 

Phil almost choked on his drink; Tony just grinned and slapped Carl on the back as he stood to shake the man’s hand. “A man who can make good puns is a man after my own heart,” Tony said. “She’s off to an excellent start; let’s hope her follow through is just as good.” 

 

“Perfect!” Carl said, his hearty laugh filling the room. “And you, Mr. Olson, are you ready to enjoy the rest of the evening?” 

 

“Indeed,” Phil replied, shaking the offered hand. “I’m looking forward to both shows.” 

 

As Carl moved on, two more movers and shakers came by to see and be seen with Stark. To each one, Tony introduced Phil as a potential club investor, diving into his role in the operation with gusto. By the time the lights flashed for the second act, Phil was sure the whole room knew who he was supposed to be and why he was here. 

 

So it was no surprise when O’Warren himself was the last to approach. “Mr. Stark. Good of you to join us.” 

 

“Wouldn’t miss Betsy’s dancing,” Tony said. “And Evon Hawke. I’m not afraid to admit I can swing both ways when it comes to a little strip tease.” 

 

“And you are Mr. Olson.” O’Warren’s hand was cold and clammy. “A pleasure. Perhaps we could …”

 

The music began, playing loud enough to inhibit talking. “Join us,” Tony offered, taking his own seat. “Best view in the house.” 

 

Phil settled in to watch, one eye on O’Warren, the other noting Beauregard Winston’s position just a few tables away. Winston appeared bored, his gaze sweeping the room; all alone, he jiggled his leg, the glass on the table shimmying from the vibration. Through the first two solo dancers, Winston paid no attention, moving from checking his watch to tapping his fingers on the tabletop. 

 

At their table, Tony kept up the conversation in the momentary lulls as one act exited and the next began.  Phil had to give the choreographer and the dancers credit; unlike strip shows, the women exhibited a range of styles, one more hip-hop much to the delight of the younger members of the audience, and the next a Ginger Rogers styled ballroom glamour girl. They took off clothes, but were never fully nude. Showgirls in Vegas showed more than these lovely women did; the sensuality was in the steps, the extension of arms and legs, the curve of backs. No traditional stripper anthems, the music varied from a classical piece to pop music to country crooners. 

 

Betsy, as the finale, entered the stage in a dress that floated around her to the familiar strains of “ [ I Can’t Make You Love Me ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sLfWPLLn-QI) .” Bare feet hit the boards, lights shone from above, below, beside, turning the fabric iridescent as she danced, long fluid movements that spoke volumes of heartbreak. Yes, she was lovely, her body a testament to hours of practice, muscles that flexed as she spun and lunged, but the sensuality came from her performance, the emotion that took Phil’s breath away. A woman giving up, needing comfort and love, crying out through dance for someone to understand her. 

 

Everyone was mesmerized, even O’Warren and Winston. She commanded attention and brought the audience to its feet when she finished.  Thundering applause echoed along with a few cries of ‘bravo.”  Tony stomped his feet and stood, a big grin on his face as she blew him a kiss. The chaos continued until she exited the stage. 

 

“Good God, O’Warren, you’ve got a gold mine here!” Tony said over the din. “Letting them have their say in the choreography was brilliant. I hope you’re paying Carl well; this place is going to be big.” 

 

“Hire the best, get the best,” O’Warren replied.  “Carl already has expansion plans; if the next set goes well, I imagine he’ll hit me up for more funds after we close tonight.” 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil saw Maria bringing the still waiting Winston another drink. Certain that part of the operation was under control, he turned to O’Warren. “Sounds like you’re going to need more funds.”

 

“Mr. Stark, your dinner will be served in the Rainbow Room whenever you’re ready.” Debra simply appeared. “Mr. Olson? Have you changed your mind?” 

 

“Bring Olson the chef’s special. Charge it to me,” O’Warren said. “And whatever Stark’s ordered as well. We can talk there.” 

 

The Rainbow Room wasn’t colorful at all; it was comfortable and felt like a salon more than a night club. Only the stage that ran across one wall and extended a runway out into the middle made it a performance space. The tables were all different, vintage 60s next to faux Chippendale. Chairs were a mishmash of overstuffed, wooden, and metal, but somehow it all worked together. Whoever the designer was, they had an amazing eye for the tiniest details that wove together the various styles. The whole place spoke of comfort and intimacy; small conversation groupings where patrons could share a meal, sit and talk, or watch the show. Towards the back and sides of the room, the chairs and tables gave way to couches; those were already filled with people who weren’t dining, the height of the stage giving everyone a good view of the dancer. 

 

“Tony!” Pepper stood, waving them over. “How was Elizabeth? As good as always, I imagine.” 

 

“She outdid herself,” Tony answered. “Flat out amazing. Oh, hello. Tony Stark. And you are …?”

 

The blonde stood, unfolding her long legs and fit body to offer Tony her hand. “Arna Galdor. Virginia’s date for the evening.” 

 

Pepper blushed and stammered as Tony practically crowed. “Date! Pep, you didn’t tell me you had a date. That’s great. Bill and I will just sit over here, no problem. Don’t let us interrupt …”

 

“Tony, it’s fine. I told Arna you’d be joining us …” Pepper tried to insist. 

 

“Nope, won’t hear of it. We’ve got business anyway; you have a nice tete-a-tete, just the two of you.” Tony just talked over her. “Hey, Happy’s got the limo. Use it to take her home. Or use the penthouse if you want to … you know … it’s all stocked for …” 

 

“Tony and I will be fine.” Phil pulled Stark by the arm, yanking him back and cutting off the flow of thought that was pouring from his mouth. “Enjoy the show.” 

 

“But …” Pepper began. 

 

“The gentlemen will be welcome at the owner’s table with me, Ms. Potts,” O’Warren stepped in, smooth and congenial. “In fact, we’re right here next to you.” 

 

“Yeah, see? No problem?” Tony took the chair which placed his back towards the women. “Won’t even be able to see you.” He plopped down, setting his drink on the glass covering. 

 

Phil waited for O’Warren to settle into his own chair, ending up with the seat facing the stage, just inches away. 

 

“Can’t believe Pepper didn’t tell me she had a date. ‘Going with a business colleague;’ that’s what she said. ‘We’re going to talk art all night, Tony’.”

 

“I don’t think she has to tell you about her private life, Tony,” Phil said, trying to move Stark back on track. “And we’re talking business, so we should leave her in peace.” 

 

“Yeah, right. Business.” Tony downed the last of his whiskey; Debra took the glass before the ice could melt, replacing it with a full one. “My head’s still spinning. Give me a second.”

 

“So, Mr. Olson, I hear you’re interested in investing.” O’Warren took the opening just as Phil hoped. 

 

“Indeed. I represent a consortium of international businessmen who are looking to diversify. Spread their money and decrease their risk. What you’ve built here is exactly the kind of company they’d approve.” One thing about working in white collar crime -- Phil knew the language of money laundering. 

 

“I have my own standards; don’t get into bed with just anyone.” O’Warren sat back as plates of food were delivered. “You bring your investor information, and we can talk without distractions. Tomorrow. Lunch here at the club.” 

 

“If the food’s as good as it looks, I’ll be delighted to eat here again.” Phil’s plate held a delicious looking waffle, piled high with peach compote and still arm from the fryer chicken. 

 

“Organic free-range, locally sourced meats,” Debra was saying, “in season fruit from upstate.” 

 

Stark’s surprise was a delicious looking burger and a side of pomme frites. Cheese melted down the side of the thick patty, crisp spinach leaves and a dollop of sauce peeking out of the bun. 

 

“... Kobe beef with a chipotle aioli. Let me know if you need anything else. I’ll bring a bottle of sparkling water for the table.” Debra bobbed her head and left. 

 

“Go ahead and eat,” O’Warren told them. “It’s best while it’s hot.” 

 

“I was expecting tiny little portions and fancy ingredients,” Tony said, cutting his burger in half so he could pick it up with one hand. 

 

“I hate that pretentious shit. Three cubes of beef and a smear of fancy ketchup.” O’Warren laughed. “This is real food.”

 

“So I hear you imported some talent from the D.C. club,” Phil said between mouthfuls. 

 

“The best of all the clubs. Carl’s been assembling the shows for over a year. He wants to change the whole industry,” O’Warren answered. 

 

Having set the lunch meeting, Phil let Tony take over the conversation, focusing instead on the increasing frustration of the rest of the team. Downstairs, Winston was dining with Elizabeth with no potential seller in sight. Whatever Amora’s game, she wasn’t playing the way they expected. It was beginning to feel like wasted time; the sketches could be anywhere in the city, hell, the whole world. Maybe he’d let his desire to catch Stane cloud his judgement. 

 

The lights blinked just as Phil took the final bite of waffle. The room had filled in the last ten minutes, every seat taken, some even perched on the edge of of couches and leaning against the wall. Male, female, black, white, Asian, European … the audience was as varied as the city itself, the only common denominator money. Everyone here had paid a premium for their membership. Diversity only went as far as the pocketbook it seemed. 

 

“I think this show will be more to your liking,” O’Warren said, voice pitched low. 

 

The hairs on the back of Phil’s neck stood up, but he tamped down on the the shiver of warning. “I enjoyed the show downstairs immensely.” 

 

“I’m sure you did.” Something dark flickered across O’Warren’s eyes. “But I’m in the business of knowing what men want and giving it to them, Mr. Olson. Everyone has their pleasure.” 

 

The curtains rolled back and the lights went dark. The show began. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show is spread out over the next two chapters. Lots of sexy stripping and dancing, links included. :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The show stars with an opening number that leaves Phil breathless. Clint and Phil both figure out something important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the links I put in for the songs and some of the specific details work. If not, I've posted the songs in the end notes. Split the show into two chapters; the next will be posted Monday or Tuesday.

Lights flared from the corners of the stage; an  [ undulating curtain of silver ](https://bluecurtainsbris.files.wordpress.com/2016/01/paper-chain.jpg?w=584) hung from side to side, swaying slightly, giving glimpses of the six men behind the thin threads. As the music began, they moved, each shifting into a series of poses, backlit shadows that arched and turned with the rhythm. 

 

[ _ This time,  I’m gonna make you scream _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgadFw8ISaE) _.  _

 

The two dancers on the ends parted the chains as they came through; it rolled like liquid over their shoulders, showing the contours of their well honed bodies. Simple leather pants were all they wore, their faces covered by black half-masks, hair slicked back. Oiled skin gleamed, the muscles bunching and relaxing as they danced. The next two followed, and then the last two, only the color of their skin and their builds different.. 

 

_ I see you over there, so hypnotic _

_ Thinking 'bout what I do to that body _

 

The steps were simple, a syncopated shifting of weight from foot to foot as they moved across the stage and down the runway.  One stopped right in front of Phil’s table, a man with dark skin and even darker eyes; he had a compact body, his arms developed and his chest firm. Talented, his moves were smooth like silk, tension shifting across his abs as he danced. 

 

_ Got no drink in my hand _

_ But I'm wasted _

_ Getting drunk of the thought of you naked _

 

But Phil’s eyes were drawn to the dancer near Pepper’s table. Even with his hair darkened and half his face obscured, there was no mistaking Clint. The length of his neck, the set of his shoulders, the curve of his back … Phil didn’t need to see the small birthmark that rode just above the waistband of the low slung pants to know. Clint moved with an elegance that was familiar, his gait easy, steps light. 

 

_ And I ain't trying to fight it, to fight it _

_ But you're so magnetic, magnetic _

 

He couldn’t look away from  that expanse of bare skin, glistening now with oil and sweat. Raising his arms, Clint circled his hips, the tight leather pulling across his crotch; biceps flexed, muscles clearly delineated, and Phil forgot to breathe.

 

_ Imagine me whispering in your ear _

_ That I wanna, take off your clothes and put something on _

 

Turning, Clint put his ass on display, cupped by the tight pants; the dancers fell back, lining up in front of the swaying curtain before spinning around. Thrusting their hips and scooting forward inch by inch, they came on strong; the crowd sat forward, clapped, a few in the back called out as the thrusts turned into strutting, arms swinging confidently and sexy smiles. 

 

One by one, they took a turn in front, each one featuring a unique style, but Phil didn’t notice. All he could see was Clint’s arms extending, the way beads of sweat rolled down his chest, the slight dip of his back every time Clint rolled his hips. Then Clint was in the spotlight and he danced like Gene Kelly, ballroom grace with hip hop pops. 

 

_ If you wanna scream _

_ Out, louder, scream louder _

_ Louder, louder, louder _

_ Hey, tonight I scream, I'm on need _

 

The music grew softer; Clint stepped into the curtain and raised his arms, wrapping the fall of metal around his wrists and standing with his back to the audience. Slowly, as the music built up, he bent backwards, suspending his weight from the drape, all the way until his hair brushed the stage. Kicking his legs, he flipped over, the momentum carrying him upright into a spin and a strut until he ended in the middle of the grouped dancers. Bending his knees and grinding his hips, he looked right at Phil and winked. 

 

_ Get you going like ah-ooh _

_ Baby baby ooh baby baby _

_ Ah-ooh baby baby ooh baby _

_ If you wanna scream _

 

Applause erupted in the room.  Tony whistled, loud and long, Pepper sat forward and clapped, and Phil knew that O’Warren’s eyes weren’t on the stage. Above everything, Phil hoped his strategically placed napkin and the darkness of the room kept the man from seeing the full extent of his arousal. 

 

“Now that’s more like it,” O’Warren said, signalling their concierge. “Another drink for our friends.” 

* * *

 

Clint stopped backstage as the others rushed to change their costumes and prepare for the rest of the show.  Taking a deep breath, he waited for his pulse to slow and the flush of performance to cool. Last thing he wanted was for Nat to notice how rattled he was; at least he had lots of practice hiding behind a mask. 

 

“Seems you haven’t lost the touch.” She was right beside him, tapping on her tablet, changing the lights for Mason’s set, lots of blues and reds to simulate police cruiser lights. “If you weren’t shacking up with Stark already, I’d say he’d invite you home tonight. And the Suit? He was more than a little distracted by your …” 

 

“Don’t.” The word slid out unplanned. “Not now. Tomorrow, you can give me as much grief as you want, but I’ve got to go out there one more time and need to keep my head on straight.” 

 

Silent for a moment, Natasha waited before she answered. “Twice in one week,” she mused. “Okay. Tomorrow.”

 

“Thanks.” He smiled at her, his oldest friend who, somehow, understood what he didn’t. “Any word from downstairs?” 

 

“Still a no show.” Natasha tapped a few more buttons and the first notes of Fiona Apple’s  [ “Criminal” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FFOzayDpWoI) sounded; Mason strolled on stage in his police uniform, not a cheesy tear away kind, but real fabric and heavy boots. A trained tango dancer, Mason built his number on a paso doble, a bull fighter’s dance. “There’s another game in play; if it was me, I’d set Winston up as a red herring for the suits to follow and find another buyer.” 

 

“Hell, Amora’s probably got three fall back plans. She always takes care of herself,” Clint mused out loud. “Can’t see her passing up a bidding war with big buyers like Winston and others.” 

 

What he would do? He’d take the deal to sell the sketches as a cover while he tracked down Natasha. That meant the current owner wasn’t the one who wanted Nat; no, there’d be another client buried deep under layers of protection, another set of goals. Amora didn’t take penny ante jobs and she always had one eye open for opportunities for side projects. That time in Cern, she’d helped herself to an emerald necklace and a Mesopotamian bowl worth millions at a house party. 

 

“You know,” Natasha murmured, “this is a great place to identify potential marks.” 

 

Mason was hitting the finale of his act, a series of travelling spins that took him to center stage. Waving Brad forward, Natasha’s fingers skimmed the controls as she prepared for the switch. 

 

“Have to get an invite at the last minute,” Clint agreed with a nod.

 

The clapping was long and sustained; Mason took three bows before he exited the stage. Lights flashed, shifting into position for Brad’s act, turning to warm tones of orange and yellow, illuminating the faces by the stage as the curtains pulled back to reveal the prop bar, tables and chairs. Clint caught a glimpse of Pepper, leaning across her table to speak to the woman in the opposite chair. 

 

“Members have a plus one option,” Natasha said. “Find someone single …” 

 

A wave of applause ran around the room as Brad’s music began; an award winning competitive line dancer, he’d picked the familiar and fun  [ “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy.”  ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qt0_oPPK6eA) [ In jeans and chaps ](http://images.tribe.net/tribe/upload/photo/b93/e45/b93e45df-4f8f-43aa-80cc-2888f740fdf5) , Brad sauntered on the stage, his work gloved hands tipping his hat as he began dancing. 

 

“Tony didn’t know Pepper had a date. Fuck. Can you get a look at the woman sitting with Pepper Potts?” Clint reached up and thumbed on his earpiece; he’d turned it off while on the stage. “You haven’t been out front; she probably hasn’t seen you.” 

 

“Making an end run for Stark’s money? That’s aiming high.” Natasha swiped her tablet and turned it towards Clint. “The blonde? Here?” She pulled up security feeds, scrolling through various angles to get the best view. “The height is right; hair can change, can’t see her eyes, but …” The woman in question turned to speak to her companion, giving a perfect profile to the camera.  “It’s her, I’d know that aquiline nose anywhere. She looks down it often enough.”

 

“Hey,” Clint grabbed her arm as she made to leave. “Show must go on, right? We make a plan, deal with her after. Right now, we know where she is for the next hour or so. Track her back, find where she’s got her stash …” 

 

“... get the sketches, screw her over and find out who she’s working for.” Natasha’s eyes were hard as emeralds. 

 

“I’ll tell Phil ..” he started to say.

 

“No. No Suits. Bring Barnes in if you have to, but this is our score.” Once she made up her mind, Natasha was implacable.  All Clint could do was agree. 

 

“No Suits.” 

 

He was officially between a rock and a hard place, pun intended. 

* * *

 

All through the dances, something kept niggling at Phil’s brain; as the [ dancer dressed as a magician ](http://www.digitaljournal.com/img/2/7/4/3/7/7/i/2/8/8/o/Criss_Angel_1.jpg) came on stage, Phil sat back in his chair and tried to tug on the loose thread.   [ “I have only come here seeking knowledge, ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=svWINSRhQU0) ” the lyrics of the song he danced to went, “I’ll be wrapped around your finger.” Magic. Misdirection. Wrapped around your finger. That certainly described how Phil felt about Clint. He couldn’t trust Barton; a con man at heart, Clint himself didn’t seem to know when he was lying or telling the truth. Getting too close … well, that was trouble … but damn if he could stop himself. It was one thing to be attracted to the man, but Phil had to draw a line or he’d end up like so many others, left alone and missing something valuable. 

 

Manipulation was at the heart of a good con. Make people see what you want them to see, get them to expect one thing while you do another. Like the Enchantress -- she’d turned their eyes towards Winston and left them hanging. Where was she? he wondered. What was the real plan?  Getting into her mind was what Phil did best; it was how he caught Clint, understanding the choices he made and predicting where he’d be. Maybe that was the answer; what would Clint do in this situation? No, that wouldn’t work because Amora was a different sort of thief. She preferred romancing the target, playing innocent, presenting herself as innocuous before she took what she came for. A straightforward deal with Winston was too simple; he was a red herring, the ‘hey look here’ pop of the magician’s flash powder. So if Winston was the distraction, what was the real objective? The other potential buyers had all checked out, either out of town or out of the running. The only other possibility was …

 

Stane. An investor in the club where this all was going down. A man who had deep pockets and a collection of erotic art. A CEO whose company was dealing off the books. But why not just buy the sketches? Why the shell game of where’s Amora? What else could he be after? 

 

The act ended and Phil realized he’d missed the whole thing. Tony nudged his knee and winked. “You still in there?”

 

“It’s a lot to take in,” Phil replied, giving Tony an easy smile. “I’m saving myself for the finale.” 

 

O’Warren chuckled. “Oh, it’s worth waiting for, I promise.” 

“Pep can’t stop talking about this Evon Hawke character; hell, I can’t believe she brought a date. I figured she’d want him all to herself.” Tony craned his neck to see the table behind them; Pepper raised an eyebrow as he tried to get a look. “Just checking,” he told her. She ignored him, cutting him off by turning back to her companion to share a quiet word. 

 

The lights dimmed and a fog rolled out; a projected image of a forest appeared on a gauzy white transparent curtains. A man strolled on the stage, hiking boots, simple plaid shirt, dark hair, and neatly trimmed beard. A slow intro, then the music swung into a quick beat, a song that Phil didn’t recognize.

 

[ “All Time Low ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-Vb-LAT4MA) ,” Stark said. “Pepper’s into all those indie bands.” 

 

The moon appeared on the gauze, waxing and growing larger as the dance progressed. What began as a traditional strip tease slowly began to change; he slipped out of his clothes, began to prowl, an animal emerging from a man.  The evolution was both fascinating as well as sensual; using modern dance moves to feed the illusion of a transformation, he crawled on all fours, rearing back to reach for the moon. 

 

“Well, damn.” Tony scooted his chair around so he could talk to Pepper, completely forgetting he was supposed to be leaving her alone. “We should get that guy for the next Christmas party.” 

 

“He’d be better than the fake Chippendale’s you ordered that one year.” She was smiling, obviously enjoying the show. “We should have Elizabeth too.” 

 

“Don’t forget the lighting and stage sets,” Pepper’s date said. “The creative use of elements makes the dances that much better.” 

 

Phil froze in his seat as the woman glanced up at the stage. He knew that profile. All this time, she’d been sitting this close and he’d missed it. Ingenious, that’s what it was. Using Pepper to get into the club.  Pepper must have known her for a while … of course, Amora would be bidding on artwork. They must have crossed paths in their respectives works. Hell, Stane probably purchased items from Amora, maybe even Tony by extension as well. How easy for Stane to hire her for a job, to  … what? Good God, if Stane hired her, she knew all about Clint and that meant …

 

The lights went down for the next dancer. With O’Warren so close, Phil couldn’t contact the others, much less get up and leave. He had to find a way to let Steve and Maria know, to warn Clint. At least he knew where she’d be until the end of the show; he’d just have to figure something out before then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Opening Number: "Scream" by Usher  
> Police: "Criminal" by Fiona Apple  
> Cowboy: "Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy"  
> Werewolf: "Like a Wolf" by All Time Low
> 
> The silver chain curtains I saw used in a production of Richard II at the RSC in Stratford-upon-Avon; David TEnnant played Richard the II. And I have to give credit to Dancing with the Stars for the "Ride a Cowboy" idea.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint takes the stage. Amora makes her move and so does Natasha. Phil makes a choice. And nobody walks away happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like this chapter. I wrestled long and hard with Clint's stripping song, finally settling on one.

“Damn it.” James Barnes cursed under his breath as he rubbed his forehead. “We need to get a tracker on her somehow; let me get Steve and he can …” 

 

“No.” Natasha glared over her shoulder at him, hissing the word as she dimmed the stage lights for Julio’s exit. “No Suits.”

 

“Your paranoia is going to get you killed on day,” Barnes hissed back. “She knows both of us and Clint can’t exactly serve her a drink, now can he?” 

 

“It’s too much of a risk. She probably already knows all the Feds by sight; besides, if Stane’s in on this in any way, he’ll have shown her Clint’s picture.” She had a point; Clint was living in Tony’s house. 

 

“Then I can’t get close to her during my dance,” Clint said, stepping aside as Wash brushed past on his way to the stage. “Any attention I pay her will be suspect; I’ve got to keep pretending I don’t know who she is.” 

 

“I’ll do it,” Sam offered from behind them. “You’ll have to point out which one she is, but I can handle dropping a tracker in her pocketbook.” 

 

“It’s ingestible,” Barnes told him then paused. “Who the hell are you?” 

 

“Sam Wilson, Para-rescue. Hates Stane, would like to see him locked in a cell. Willing to help.” Sam held out his hand; Bucky stared at it for a second then shook it. 

 

“Falcon project? You bird boys are crazy,” Barnes replied. “Can you get this in her drink?”

 

“Dude, I can do better than that. Get me a tray with fresh drinks for the whole table. I’m a cabana boy; it’s what I do.” Sam grinned. “Ari, can we do the alternative opening? The one we originally were thinking of?” 

 

Natasha’s smile matched his. “Easy as pie. Get a refill of whatever Potts and Amora are drinking at table 3. I’ll switch the light setting.” 

 

When Wash was finished, Natasha lowered Sam’s curtains, a row of two foot long strips in alternating stripes of bright yellow and white. Brightening the filters to flood the back of the stage like the summer sun, she started the music. Two measures in, the spotlight hit Sam where he stood by the bar, white uniform crisply pressed, a silver tray with five drinks balanced on it. 

 

[ _ Oh, no _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWaRiD5ym74)

[ _ See you walking 'round like it's a funeral _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWaRiD5ym74)

[ _ Not so serious, girl; why those feet cold? _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWaRiD5ym74)

[ _ We just getting started; don't you tiptoe, tiptoe, ah _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vWaRiD5ym74)

 

Sam was as acrobatic as he was fluid, winding his way through the tables, twisting and turning in time to the beat. With smiles and winks, he played to the crowd, working his way to the stage. Making it his last stop, he delivered the drinks with a flourish, starting with Stark and ending with O’Warren, flirting with all of them before he vaulted onto the stage. 

 

_ Talk to me, baby _

_ I'm going after this sweet-sweet craving, whoa-oh _

_ Let's lose our minds and go fucking crazy _

_ Ya-ya-ya-ya-ya keep on hoping we'll eat cake by the ocean _

 

As Clint watched, Amora sipped the martini, a slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth as she studied Sam’s ass. Good, that’s what Sam Wilson was; he mixed street dancing with latin style, losing his shirt first and then his pants, leaving only a simple red speedo. Posing momentarily at the curtains, Sam wrapped one around each wrist, rose into the air, and flew.

 

_ Red velvet, vanilla, chocolate in my life _

_ Confetti, I'm ready; I need it every night _

_ Red velvet, vanilla, chocolate in my life  _

_ I keep on hoping we'll eat cake by the ocean _

 

Even having watched Sam practice, Clint was hard pressed not to stare at the long line of his legs and arms, the oiled muscles straining as he flipped and twirled. The audience, too, were mesmerized as Sam held his legs up, his head pointed at the stage, slowly lowering to a plank and then dipping one leg after the other until he was standing. 

 

“Fuck,” Clint breathed. “I have to go on after that?” 

 

“You’ll be fine, you big baby,” Natasha said, blacking out all the lights on the stage,raising all but the very last set of black curtains until nothing was left but one silver pole. “You’ve danced for royalty and dined with presidents. It’s just a dance. Now get your ass out there and give him something to dream about.” 

 

Taking a deep breath, Clint walked out on the stage, a shadow to the crowd, and waited for the music to begin. 

* * *

 

One lone spot lit the stage; framed in the circle, Clint leaned, one knee bent, foot resting against the silver pole. He wore a simple t-shirt, stained and stretched tight across his chest, and a low slung pair of frayed jeans, rips in the knees and over the thighs. A cigarette glowed in one hand; he raised it, took a long drag, then flicked to the ground, crushing it beneath the toe of his unlaced combat boots. When the singer’s voice came, the words reverberated through the room.

 

[ _ All my friends are heathens, take it slow _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UprcpdwuwCg)

[ _ Wait for them to ask you who you know _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UprcpdwuwCg)

 

He stalked forward, shoulders rolled back, eyes surveying the crowd. Confidence oozed from his smirk, from every swing of his arms. Dropping into a squat, he shifted his weight to one knee, smiled, slow and sexy, at a woman on Phil’s right. 

 

_ Please don't make any sudden moves _

_ You don't know the half of the abuse. _

 

Giving her a wink, he spun on the ball of his foot and rose, stepping out of his boots and balancing on the edge of the stage, heels hanging off the edge. With a graceful arch, Clint leaned over, hand touching the back of Pepper’s chair, snatching her half-full martini and standing up without spilling a drop. The whole maneuver gave Phil a perfect glimpse of tanned skin, taut stomach and the trail of hair that dipped below the button of his jeans. 

 

_ Just because we check the guns at the door _

_ Doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades _

 

Sipping the drink, he sauntered to the pole, bare feet slapping the boards in time to the beat. Just as the music picked up, the singer dropping into a patter of words, Clint grabbed the shiny metal and swung himself around. 

 

_ You're lovin' on the psychopath sitting next to you _

_ You're lovin' on the murderer sitting next to you _

_ You'll think, how'd I get here, sitting next to you? _

 

Slow, each movement careful and calculated, Clint swung his body into position -- parallel  then horizontal, held only by his muscular arms, spinning with one foot and hand, all with amazing agility. Then he linked his ankles near the top and leaned back, arms reaching for the stage, his shirt hem slipping, revealing his belly button first then his pecs. With ease, he tugged the cotton off, letting it pool on the floor as he shifted his weight to his hands and kicked over into a handstand before he lowered his legs and righted himself.  . 

 

_ Yeah, I have trust issues, not to mention _

_ They say they can smell your intentions _

 

That strut again, and Phil felt his chest constrict under a wave of longing so deep it rattled his bones. The arrogance, the brashness -- Phil knew that underneath it all, Clint cared about friends and tried not to hurt others. This man, the bad boy who dared the world to come get him, it was all an act to protect himself. And yet, as Clint slid a hand along his stomach, popped open the first three buttons of his jeans and rolled his hips, Phil wasn’t sure which he wanted more; the brazenly sexual dancer or the intelligent con man. 

 

The song kicked into gear, three beats of fast paced playing and a downbeat for the fourth; Clint blew into action as well, erotic moves and thrusts that paused as the singer admonished everyone to “watch it.” Then a quiet refrain of the chorus; Clint scooped up his shirt, dragging it behind him, bending to graze the outstretched arm of a patron. Flipping the fabric around the pole, he began to walk up the silver surface as if it were a set of stairs as the music kicked back up. He spun and arched and stretched, freezing with each downbeat. Gasps came from the crowd at his flexible poses; a groan sounded from behind Phil when Clint’s jeans slipped further down his hips, curly hair clearly visible in the open vee. 

 

_ Why'd you come, you knew you should have stayed _

_ I tried to warn you just to stay away _

 

He dropped to the stage, one knee bent the other leg extended, and rolled himself up one vertebrae at a time. One last stroll forward, he ended right in front of Phil, leaned forward and gave a slow wink, tongue slicking along his bottom lip. Just as he’d begun, he dug a cigarette butt from his pocket, lit it from the small candle on Phil’s table then stood up and took a long drag, exhaling smoke as the last words echoed through the space. 

 

_ And now they're outside ready to bust _

_ It looks like you might be one of us _

 

Song ended, Clint turned and leisurely picked up his boots and shirt, never looking back as he exited the stage. 

 

Applause exploded in the room, catcalls and whistles, a few people calling for an encore. Phil stayed in his seat, Amora on the edge of his vision, and tried to get his heartrate under control. That look, the one Clint gave him … “might be one of us” … as if Barton knew Phil’s deep seated fear, understood how fragile the line between hunting criminals and becoming one really was. 

 

Good God, but after that performance, Phil might just be ready to sign up to be a heathen. 

 

“Enjoy the show?” O’Warren spoke right by his ear to be heard over the noise. “Perhaps, if our business goes well, I can arrange an introduction.” 

 

Keeping Pepper and Amora in his periphery, Phil nodded. “I certainly wouldn’t mind. What time?” 

 

“Eleven. Here.” O’Warren eyed him. “‘Til then, Olson.” 

 

“Damn.” Tony slapped Phil on the back as O’Warren walked off. “If I wasn’t already bi, I certainly would be after that.”

 

Amora bent her head towards Pepper then turned towards the exit; whatever she’d said, Pepper blushed to the roots of her strawberry blonde hair. 

 

“I’ll be right back,” Phil told Stark, keeping an eye on the retreating figure. 

 

“Yeah, me too. Need to walk it off.” Tony was right behind him. “Might work my way backstage and get that pool boy’s name and number.” 

 

“Stark, I don’t think …” Phil pushed through the people as they rose, pushing their seats away from their tables. “Damn it.” 

 

He didn’t have time to worry about Tony; Amora was getting away. 

 

* * *

 

Clint grabbed a towel from stool and wiped the sweat from his forehead; breathing fast, his mind reeled from that last look Phil had sent his way. Those blue eyes had been searing; when Clint blinked, he could see them on the inside of his eyelids. So much fodder for later, to feed his fantasies. Now, he had to box it up and put the emotion away; Amora was a more pressing problem.  

 

He wound his way through backstage. Julio slapped him on the back, the other dancers already sharing the bottle of champagne Carl had left for them. Taking a glass, Clint saw Bucky in the corner, talking to Sam. 

 

“Dude, that was righteous.” Sam said, raising his own flute of sparkling wine. “What’s the next move?” 

 

“Nothing for you,” Barnes said. “It’s a waiting game now. We get Ari … Where’s Ari? She was waiting for you to come off the stage.”

 

“No, she was with you,” Clint argued. “She told me she’d stick … Fuck.” 

 

“I’ll take the back staircase.” Barnes was already in motion, striding towards the door. “Wilson, check the dressing room and backstage. Hawk …”

 

“On it.” Clint didn’t stop to do more than set his drink down; the hallway to the north was blocked from the public, part of the unfinished spa that would open in a few months. It connected to the restroom area behind the bar, a perfect exit route from the theater. Duck out with an easy excuse and disappear if things got too hot. That’s where he’d find Amora and Natasha, he was sure of it.

 

* * *

 

Stopping at the cracked door, Phil held Stark behind him, putting a finger to his lips to signal for silence. Glancing through the small vertical slit, he saw a hallway piled with boxes, tarps, and painting supplies. Only two lights burned above, casting shadows in the open doorways spaced out along the walls. 

 

“Is she …” Tony started to ask. Phil grimaced and put his hand over Stark’s mouth, shaking his head. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t shake the man as he’d wound through these half-finished areas of the building. 

 

Drawing his gun from his belt, he soundlessly swung the door open, stepping inside, Stark nearly plastered to his back. 

 

“Drop the gun.”  She was behind them, framed in a wash of light, her golden tresses shining.  With cold eyes, she leveled her pistol at them.  “We can all walk away from this without bloodshed.”

 

“Yeah, we know that’s not going to happen,” Stark said before Phil could answer.  “You’re trigger happy, from what I hear.” 

 

“Look, we can work this out. Give me the name of who hired you and we can make a deal,” Phil said, elbowing Stark to the side. “If we recover the Waterhouse sketches that will go a long way to mitigating your charges.” 

 

“Please. Do you think I’m stupid?” she asked. “You’ve already contacted Interpol and I’m sure pretty boy Thor has told you about my little indiscretions. Lies do not become you, Coulson.” 

 

“You’re not getting out of this building; we’ve got the exits covered.” It was worth a try, even if he doubted she’d buy the line. “Name your boss and we’ll talk.” 

 

“Drop the gun. Last chance.” She shifted the muzzle until her gun pointed at Stark. “Or I shoot the playboy.” 

 

“Fine.” Phil held up a hand and slowly lowered his gun to the floor. 

 

“Kick it over,” she demanded. 

 

Phil complied, watching it skitter into a tarp and get caught three steps away. “Now, why don’t we ....”

 

The shot was muffled by a silencer, a pop rather than a bang; Tony reeled back, dropping to his knees and folding in half. 

 

“OW!” he shouted. Red ran between Stark’s fingers where he clasped his upper arm. “She shot me!” 

 

“What the …” Phil started to turn but the unwavering barrel stopped him. 

 

“Tut, tut, tut.” She made the sound with her tongue, shaking her head. “He was right, you know. I do so love the pull of a trigger. Good bye, Suit. Wish I could stick around and see Barton’s face when he finds your body.” 

 

A cold certainty settled in Phil’s chest; she was going to do it. This was how he was going to die, a bullet in a dusty hallway. For a split second, he started to dive for his gun, to go out doing something rather than standing still. At least he was on the job, doing what he loved, trying to catch a bad guy and save people. 

 

A pop followed the ting of a bullet hitting metal; it ricocheted off a light fixture and buried itself in drywall. Amora went down, a red headed woman on her back, hands sunk into Amora’s hair. 

 

“Never learned to watch your back,” the redhead said. Yanking off Amora’s wig, she caught the woman in a chokehold, bending Amora with a knee in her back. “Who wants me dead?” 

 

“Who said dead?” Amora coughed, her face reddening. “I can’t …”

 

“It’s not that tight.” The redhead looked up as Phil grabbed his gun. “Spill it, Marta Lou.” 

 

“Do. Not. Call. Me. That.” Amora tried to slam her head back, but she couldn’t get enough leverage. 

 

“Let her go,” Phil ordered. 

 

“Tell me,” the redhead hissed, ignoring Phil entirely. “And I’ll let him take you into custody.” 

 

“Three birds, one stone. Shouldn’t have tried for three.”  Amora laughed then sank her teeth into flesh, twisting and bucking, shaking the woman loose. Rolling, she came up with a knife in her hand, slashing upwards, catching the redhead on her forearm and drawing blood. “To hell with what others want; I’m tired of you being in my way.” 

 

They tussled, trading punches; Phil couldn’t get a clear shot as the two women fought. From the start, the redhead had the upper hand, clearly a better fighter; all too quickly, she caught Amora with a nasty right hook. The thief crumpled to the floor, unconscious. 

 

“Don’t move.” Phil trained his eyes on the redhead. “Natasha Romanova, you’re under arrest.” 

 

“Phil.” Clint stepped from behind him, careful not to touch or get in the firing zone. 

 

“This is what you were keeping from me.” A bubble of anger flared in Phil. “You and Barnes knew the point was to find the Widow.” 

 

“Yes,” Clint admitted, taking a few more steps towards the redhead. He was still wearing nothing but his jeans, the fly open and sagging down. Streaks of sweat ran through his stage makeup. “I tried to get her to stay out of this but she’s as stubborn as you are.” 

 

“Tony!” Pepper came down the hall, took everything in with a glance, and dropped to her knees beside Stark. “What have you gotten caught up in?” 

 

“I’ve been shot!” Tony objected. “Your date is a cold stone bitch, Pep. Sorry.” 

  
  


With a sigh, Pepper looked up. “Par for the course,” she said. “Nice to see you, Natalie. I’m not surprised to see you here.” 

 

“Can’t stay out of trouble,” Natasha said with a shrug. “Did you enjoy the show?” 

 

“Oh, yes. Very much.” Pepper pulled Tony’s hand away and examined the wound. “I’m hard pressed to pick a favorite.” 

 

“Sam was damn good,” Clint suggested. “The cabana boy.” 

 

“Excuse me,” Phil interrupted. “I’m making an arrest here.”

 

“Yeah, um, not really.” Barnes joined the conversation, kneeling beside Amora as he pulled handcuffs from his back pocket. “She’s my CI. I’d rather you didn’t.” 

 

The infamous Black Widow was helping Barnes catch art thieves. That didn’t surprise Phil at all. He lowered his gun. “Damn it. This would be easier if I was in the loop.” 

 

“It would be easier if we could have followed Amora back to her hotel and found the sketches like planned,” Clint corrected.

 

Barnes searched Amora. “No room key, nothing. Why don’t women’s clothes have pockets?” 

 

“Thus why we carry a purse.” Pepper held out a small black clutch. “This is hers.” 

 

“Sorry about your date.” Clint took the purse and handed it to Phil. “If it makes you feel better, she went for you instead of Stark; she knew who was the real power behind the throne.” 

 

“Well,” Tony sat up straighter. “She’s smart, I’ll give her that much.” 

 

Phil opened the bag; the only thing inside was a lipstick and a thousand dollars in cash. “We’ll have to take her in and question her,” he told Barnes. “Let’s pack her up quietly and go out the back.” Then he looked at Clint. “You might want to change.” 

 

“Before he starts a riot,” Tony agreed, standing with an arm over Pepper’s shoulders. “Damn, Barton, you look fine. Now I’ve got a stripper AND a con in my house.” 

 

Just standing there, Phil felt the earth shift beneath his feet as if he’d crossed some unseen threshold. He might be arresting a well-known thief, but he was letting another one go. With a sigh, he helped Barnes secure Amora for transit.

* * *

 

He wiped off his make up in quick strokes, washing his face afterwards before pulling on a soft grey henley and buttoning up his jeans. Working up the energy to put his suit on took too much effort, too caught up in Phil’s disappointment and the flash of resignation when Clint had intervened. He’d blown it, just like he knew he would; all the bad choices, the baggage he carried, meant Clint would always end up this way. Out of luck and on his own.

 

The least he could do was mitigate the betrayal;  as Phil made one last sweep of backstage, Clint clapped him on the shoulder, said he’d see him in the morning, and slipped the hotel key card into Phil’s pocket with an added pat. He didn’t stick around to see Phil pull it out, realize what it was, and look in Clint’s direction. Instead, Clint headed straight for the stage door, took the anklet from Steve, and caught a taxi home, avoiding Tony by going in the side entrance. 

 

Natasha was safe, and he was glad of that. But Clint had the distinct feeling he might have lost something he hadn’t even had. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam: "Cake by the Ocean" by DNCE  
> Clint: "Heathens" by Twenty-one Pilots


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky needs a vacation, Nick calls with bad news, Tony makes a purchase, Natasha gives a shovel speech, and O'Warren goes down. Clint thinks the worst and Phil sets him straight. I'd say all's well that ends well, but that wouldn't exactly be the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me through this story! There will be more in this series, six total. Look for the next installment when an old colleague of Phil's shows up to throw a monkey wrench into the boys' partnership.

The phone woke Phil at 8:27 a.m., only four hours and forty-two minutes after he’d turned off the lights. Searching Amora’s apartment, thanks to the key Clint had slipped him, a fruitless questioning once Amora was awake, reams of paperwork, and far too many side eyes from Fury had taken up most of the night. Then there was his meeting with O’Warren in the morning, a chance to bring down a second wanted criminal in twenty-four hours. Phil had barely dragged himself home before his ringtone brought his eyes open and made him reach for the bedside table.  Fury’s name appeared on the screen. 

 

“I’m up,” Phil answered, sitting and hanging his feet over the edge. He had plenty of time for a shower and a stop by the coffee shop before heading into the office. 

 

“She’s been extradited by direct order from D.C. Sent to Interpol in Europe on a 7 a.m. flight.” Anger oozed from each word as Fury explained the situation. “Didn’t even bother to call me, just showed up with papers and took custody.”

 

Speechless for a few seconds, Phil spat out a curse and stood. “Damn it. Stane’s behind this, I’d bet my eye teeth. Anyone call Thor? Find out exactly where she’s going? Did we get a copy of the paperwork? Fuck, Nick, she’s in the wind. I know it.” 

 

“Just got in the office myself,” Nick answered. “Called you first.”

 

“I’m coming in.” Phil threw open his closet, yanking out a pair of slacks. “Be there in thirty or less.” 

 

“Take a shower and get some java,” Fury said. “She’s gone, Phil. No need to rush. I’ll have all the data when you get in.” 

 

He dropped the phone on the bed; staring sightlessly around the room, he exploded in anger, fist plowing into his pillow. 

 

“Damn it all to hell.”

 

* * *

 

“And you can transfer the money now?” O’Warren asked, walking around the desk. “I have to say, you’re credentials are quite impressive, Mr. Olson.” 

 

“Call me Bill.” He swiped his finger over his phone screen and showed O’Warren the figure in the account. “If this works out, my backers will be very pleased.” 

 

“As will mine.”  With a nod, the man agreed to the price. “Here’s the number.” 

 

With just a few keystrokes, Phil started the tracker program as he shifted the cash over to O’Warren’s account. Now Darcy would be able to follow the money through O’Warren’s fake companies, providing them with the evidence to connect the man with all sorts of dirty dealings. 

 

“Now, how about that introduction?” O’Warren said as they exited the office; Carl was pacing the floor, eager to get back to work, having been evicted from the meeting. “I’m sure Evon will be excited to meet you.” 

 

“He’s not here today,” Carl said in passing. “Only performs one day a week.” He paused in the doorway. “Oh, Mr. Olson, I’d love to hear your input about last night.  Elizabeth and Ari spoke highly of your taste; I intend to make this the best club in the whole city. Can’t do that if I don’t listen to the customers.” 

 

“I’ll be glad to.” Phil wondered just what the heck he’d say. “I’m afraid I have another appointment and have to head out. I’ll be back for dinner this week though; the food was excellent.” 

 

“Thank you!” Carl beamed. “That’s good to know.” 

* * *

 

“I don’t want to be bothered, Janelle,” Obediah Stane said, passing his secretary’s desk on his way into his office. “I’ve got that meeting at four. Be sure and run off hard copies for Josephson and Reyes. They still want paper in their hands.” 

 

Shutting the doors behind him, Stane stormed over to his desk, took a phone out of his pocket and sent yet another text message. Burners and fake account aside, he was growing concerned by the woman’s silence. HIs sixth sense had been tingling since she showed up at his house; she was going to double cross him.  Right now, she was probably selling the sketches to Winston or making a deal with O’Warren. Hell, he wouldn’t put it past her to sell out to Tony for more money.

 

“Fine.” He dialed another number and waited for an answer. “It’s Stane. That Galador woman’s disappeared. Find her and get my property. And my money. Yes, whatever you need. Sell her to one of her enemies if you want. I don’t care.” 

 

Sitting in his leather chair, Stane leaned back, removing his glasses and rubbing his temples. Getting rid of Tony was proving much harder than he anticipated. Ever since he’d dragged home that con artist, Tony had risen to an eleven on the pain in the ass meter. Stane would just have to find a more permanent way to get rid of Howard’s kid than bankrupting him. Good thing Stane knew some not so nice people to do the job.

* * *

 

“I don’t know who signed the order,” James said, changing his phone from one shoulder to the other as he paced across his room. “But I have my suspicions. Yes, I have the sketches; we found them in an airport locker.” 

 

He hadn’t slept more than four hours since they’d arrested Amora; Coulson had invited him on the search of her room and that had led to finding the sketches, if nothing else of use. But his employers were satisfied; the British Government had contracted the company to find and return the historical Waterhouse Rippers. He’d done that and was in line for a nice bonus; he should be happy, but he felt … incomplete.  He hadn’t solved the real problem. 

 

“Tomorrow, early.” He paused, looking at the busy street below. “Yeah, that’d be nice. At least a week, if I can swing it. Some place warm with a beach. Assuming nothing comes up, which it usually does.”  He chuckled. “You too. See you soon.” 

 

“You actually going to take a vacation?” Natasha asked, kicking her feet up on the ottoman by the room’s sole chair. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

 

“I do have a life, you know.” At least this time he was dressed, even if he needed a shower and had dark circles under his eyes. She always caught him at his worst, it seemed. “Any idea where Amora is? My Interpol connections say they weren’t the ones who sprung her from the FBI.”

 

“Oh, I intend to find out, don’t you worry.” When Natasha smiled, James knew exactly why people called her the Black Widow. 

 

“She wanted you alive.” That fact was one of a dozen that was bothering him. “Sell the Waterhouse, tag you … what was the third thing? Three birds, one stone. What would your plan be?” 

 

“Well, I wouldn’t be selling torture porn sketches.” Annoyance flashed in her green eyes then she sank further into the chair. “I’d be after Stark’s money or SI’s classified files. Use Pepper as a way to get into Tony’s circle of friends.  Plans for their new missile system alone would be worth millions on the market. All that’s contingent, of course, on whether Stane’s got a role to play.” 

 

“Phil’s convinced he is.” James ran the scenario in his head. “I’m not completely sold, but I’m going to find out. He’s on my radar now.” 

 

She stretched, feline in her graceful moves. “Stane. Amora. Seems you really do need a confidential informant on the inside of the game after all. We could make it official so you didn’t lie to the Suit.” 

 

“Don’t tease,” James said. “I’ve already crossed too many lines for you.” 

 

“You have.” Standing, she crossed the distance between them, tilting her head as she looked her fill. “Constance Ephelia in the Seychelles. Always thought that would be a good place for a vacation. Not nearly as stuffy as the Four Seasons.”

 

“A little too rich for my taste,” James told her even if he could imagine the pristine white sand and big soft bed. 

 

Her hand lifted; she paused, delicate fingers hovering near his jaw. Then she dropped it to her side and stepped back. “Tell the manager to give you the Countess de Montague’s usual suite. They always have one ready for me.” 

 

“A suite in the Seychelles. Why doesn’t that surprise me?” He missed the touch, wished she’d dragged her fingertips along the skin, but he was glad she hadn’t. His reserves were low and he didn’t know if could resist. 

 

“Got a private pool that’s perfect for skinny dipping. You should find someone to share it with.” 

 

He thought long and hard about it after she was gone, leaving only the lingering trace of her perfume and thoughts of sea salt and sand.

* * *

 

“Coulson! What happened with … “ Tony stopped talking as Phil stalked to the the bar and poured himself a liberal amount of scotch with just a few ice cubes. 

 

Taking a slug of alcohol, Phil enjoyed the burn going down his throat; his breath caught, eyes watered, and, for a second, he thought the liquor would help. But it didn’t even after a second long drink. 

 

“Damn,” Tony said. “Let me get a fresh bottle.” 

 

“Amora wasn’t on the plane when it landed.” Pepper laid her hand on Phil’s forearm. “We suspected that was going to be the case.” 

 

“How do you …” Phil shook his head. Of course they already knew; their sources were better than the FBI’s. “She’s in the wind and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.” 

 

“You know, I could hack into the flight data, find out who hired the plane, if it made any stops. Wouldn’t take more than a few minutes.” Tony refilled Phil’s glass. “Follow the money trail, see where it leads.” 

 

It would be so easy to say yes. Let Stark break a few rules in pursuit of a criminal. But that’s how good agents went wrong, cutting corners that didn’t matter until they were way past the point of no return. “I’ve got Darcy on it; if we’re going to make a case, we’ve got to do this right.” 

 

“No one appreciates my skills,” Tony said. “I helped recover stolen artwork and take down a scum sucking pornographer and didn’t even get a thank you.” 

 

“You got shot,” Phil reminded him. “I wouldn’t call that helping.” 

 

“I distracted her!” Tony insisted. “Without Pepper and me, you wouldn’t have cut short her plan.” 

 

“Which reminds me.” Phil turned his attention to Pepper Potts. “You know Natasha Romanova?” 

 

“She worked at the Stark Foundation a few years ago as my personal assistant, but she called herself Natalie Rushman,” Pepper explained. “We still have coffee when she’s in town.”

 

“What was missing after she left? Artwork, sculpture, proprietary patents?” The Black Widow always had a plan. 

 

“I’ve been checking today and there’s nothing. In fact, she helped me acquire a beautiful Marc Chagall stained glass …” Pepper stopped, thought about it. “The work had been missing for years.” 

 

“And he’s a Russian artist.” Phil said. “She conned you into getting the piece for her and replaced it with a forgery.” 

 

“No, it’s the real thing.” Pepper chuckled. “That’s why she insisted on donating it to the Hillwood Estate. The largest collection of Russian art in the U.S. I can’t believe I know that the Black Widow likes peppermint mocha lattes with cinnamon sprinkles; she has a sweet tooth.” 

 

“Yeah, well, it would have been nice to know she was here,” Phil mumbled. The scotch was doing its job, numbing the rough edges and drowning out some of the static in his head. Unfortunately that left the sharpest disappointments open for introspection. 

 

“If you’re going to pout, you may as well join Barton upstairs. He’s in a funk and no fun.” Tony took his glass as he strolled towards the door. “Come on, Pep. I’m craving pelemeni. Let’s go to that Russian place.” 

 

“You should talk to him,” Pepper said before she followed Tony. “He really is a good man.” 

 

He finished his drink and headed up the stairs; he’d known that Clint was a con man, that he’d protect himself before anything else. Obviously, the rumors about Clint and the Widow were true; Phil had heard the whispers that the two worked together on occasions. It wasn’t unusual for art thieves to form partnerships, but rarely did they last beyond a job or two.

 

He knocked and the woman in question opened the door. Natasha nodded and stepped out of the way, giving Phil access to the apartment. “He’s out on the balcony,” she told him. “Go easy on him; silly boy has an overdeveloped sense of duty. Thinks he owes me and is determined to pay me back. As if I couldn’t take care of myself.” She stared right into Phil’s eyes. “Don’t hurt him, Suit. I take care of my family.” 

 

“I …” Phil was talking to empty space; Natasha had left, closing the door firmly behind her. “Yeah. That’s not slightly scary or anything.” 

 

Out in the cool night air, Clint was leaning on the balcony railing, watching the flicker of lights in the cityscape before him. Wearing dress pant and a crisp white shirt, cuffs rolled up and collar unbuttoned, the bad boy of the night before was gone, replaced with the smooth criminal Phil recognized. Coming up next to him, Phil braced himself on his forearms; from here he could see the ebb and flow of traffic, the shining store fronts and the shuttered apartment windows. Big panes of glass showed rows of desks tucked inside cubicle walls, a few still lit as their occupants worked late. 

 

“See the third floor window in the Neo-classic building? Fourth from the right? She does yoga every night after work; her cat climbs up on her back and balances as she moves.” Clint kept his eyes straight ahead. “And the older guy in the office across the street? The one with the motivational posters on the wall? He orders the same thing from the Chinese joint two blocks over; Mondays are sweet and sour pork.”

 

“It’s like a symphony.” Phil understood; for someone who’d been behind bars, the city’s music was fascinating. “There’s a young woman on my street who wears a blue shirt and khakis every single day. Same brand, mind you. Exact same style.” 

 

Clint fell silent for a few moments before he spoke again. “You taking me back in the morning? Guess I better drink that new cabernet I bought before we go.” 

 

“Take you back?” Phil had to look; Clint’s eyes were flat, the usual mischief gone. 

 

“I lied to you,” Clint said. “That was the deal, right?”

 

“Clint,” Phil said. 

 

“It’s just … Nat’s like family … no, hell, she’s closer than family, and I won’t be the reason she gets caught. Or hurt.” Clint continued talking as if he hadn’t heard Phil. “I owe her; I won’t pay her back by betraying her.”

 

“Clint,” Phil tried again. 

 

“But it was you who let her go and risked your job. Damn it, Phil.” Clint paused to take a breath.

 

“You’re not going back to jail.” Phil broke into Clint’s stream of thought. “And my job is fine. Barnes filed his report first and left her out of the whole narrative. Since we found the sketches, arrested Amora, and caught O’Warren, no one questioned it. In fact, the higher ups are pretty damn pleased with your work on the case; they can’t wait to see more successes like this one.” 

 

A step over an invisible line, going along with Barnes’ story hadn’t been easy, but Phil could see the logic of leaving out Natasha’s role. Not wanting to keep his friend in the dark, Phil had told Nick the truth; Fury had encouraged him to focus on Stane and build a case there. 

 

Clint finally turned to look Phil in the eye. “You want to take down Stane.” 

 

“And find Amora,” Phil agreed. “I’ll do what it takes to bring them both to justice.”  He paused but couldn’t let it go unsaid. “Plus, I like working with you.”

 

“Ah, now the truth comes out.” A slow upturn at the corner of his lips and Clint began to smile. “So, you never did tell me what you thought of the show … and by show, I mean me.” 

 

“Oh, I … well, it wasn’t what I expected.” Phil searched for the right words; his cheeks grew warmer as he blushed. “I thought you’d go for a suit and top hat, maybe tails.” 

 

“That was my original idea, but Nat talked me out of it.” Pivoting, Clint rested one elbow on the ledge, his grin growing wider. “Been awhile since I did pole work; did I live up to the hype?” 

 

A flash of Clint’s bare midriff, muscles stretched taut as he bent over, filled Phil’s memory. His face grew even hotter, a fact that didn’t escape Clint’s notice. “I suspect they’ll sell a lot of memberships after that performance. You were certainly … flexible.” ‘

 

That got a chuckle; Clint’s eyes sparkled as he teased Phil more. “I thought about balancing on a chair for a backbend, but that was probably too much.” 

 

“Especially for the person underneath,” Phil agreed. “It would be very distracting.” 

 

“Ummm, I can imagine it would be,” Clint said. 

 

A tension spun between them, full of possibilities. The distance was so short; just a tilt of his head and the slightest shift of weight and Phil could see if a real kiss was as good as the dream ones.  A pause, time slowed, and the night sounds grew distant; he’d already crossed lines he’d never thought he would. What would one more matter? 

 

“Although, the cabana boy was damn good too.” It took all of Phil’s willpower to stand up and let the moment fade. “A bit of Cirque du Soleil, if I’m not mistaken.” 

 

“Sam’s a badass.” Clint folllowed his lead and headed into the apartment, still smiling; he knew exactly what Phil was feeling.  “He’ll make a great headliner once they retool the show. Come on, I’ll pour us a glass of Cab and you can critique the whole thing. The opening was a bit of a mess; too many dance styles but what can you do? We’ll have it down better next week.”

 

“Next week? How is the club staying open with O’Warren under investigation?” Phil watched Clint pick two wine glasses from the rack and deftly open the bottle with a small corkscrew. 

 

“Carl’s taking over; an unnamed benefactor is working on purchasing the club through O’Warren’s lawyers. I hear there’s plans for a health club on the top floor and maybe even a swimming pool.” Clint poured and the rich red liquid filled the bowl. “Even talking about a child care center so a couple can drop their kids off while they take in dinner and a show.”

 

“Oh, God, tell me it’s not Stark who bought it.” Phil sipped the wine. “Of course it’s Stark. Who else would it be? And you’re going to keep dancing there.” 

 

“Three appearances. It’ll maintain the persona and raise the exclusivity of the club. Plus, I like the guys; if the headliner disappears right after the owner is arrested, it will look odd. This way, they have a shot at making the show successful.” Clint raised his glass. “So, a toast. To finding Amora and chasing down whoever hired her.” 

 

“To catching the bad guys,” Phil agreed, tapping glass to glass. He thought about adding, “however we can” but he didn’t. Maybe he couldn’t pretend he was still a by-the-rules type of guy, but he didn’t have to say it out loud. Not yet, anyway;. 

 

After all, Amora was still out there and Stane was free. This wasn’t over. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, lots of threads left hanging but I've got them all in hand for the next half of this series. All good TV seasons have a big bad that overarches all the episodes; stay tuned to find out who Stane is talking to on the phone. Amora and Loki are still out there as well as another character not mentioned in this story but part of the backstory. For those of you who are White Collar fans, be thinking along the lines of the end of season 1. :))) And trust me. You are not going to see the end of the sixth story coming. It's going to blow your mind.


End file.
